


Going to the River to Pray

by Bluebox_Parchment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (I'm really really sorry about that one), A LOT of Angst, Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied animal abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knight of Hell Dean, Mark of Cain, Minor Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Post-s9, Season/Series 10, So much angst, Torture, Torturer Dean, Violence, a little dean x ellie for those of you that are sensative to dean x others, and that means for a lot of pain and angst, but first lots of man pain, but kind of?, but not anything too ott, eventually, i decided to take the idea of demon dean and run with it, reference to Alastair and all the joys THAT brings, sam and cas both think dean is dead, season 10 fic, subtle nods at destiel, though i will end it happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebox_Parchment/pseuds/Bluebox_Parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is dead, except for the part where he's not. Sam is gearing up to sell his soul to bring his brother back, except that was never his plan to begin with. And Cas may be telling his siblings all he wants is to be an angel again, except he can't stay in heaven long enough to prove he's speaking the truth.</p><p>A Season 10 Fic.</p><p>I keep going to the river to pray,<br/>'Cause I need something that can wash out the pain.<br/>And at most, I'm sleeping all these demons away,<br/>But your ghost, the ghost of you, it keeps me awake.<br/>- Ghost - Ella Henderson</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Take Over, The Break's Over

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic came about through a chat with some friends. I started talking about what I'd like to see happen in Season 10, now we've got Canon Demon!Dean, and I just kinda, took the idea and sprinted with it. Chapter One basically consists of what could be deemed 'Episode One' and I've planned to write up to at least 'Episode Ten', so there's that. Any updates will be edited in here.

There's a brilliant scarlet sunset bleeding through roiling black clouds as Castiel guns down the empty highway. The light blinds him, but he does nothing to shield his eyes. He figures he can deal. After all, his grace is still there. Just about.

Enough for it to count. Enough for him to see the road without causing himself any harm.

His cellphone starts vibrating on the passenger seat again. Sam's name flashes across the screen.

He doesn't answer.

He presses his foot down a little harder, pushes the engine a little faster. Lebanon is still three hours away and hearing Sam's voice right now won't make up for the fact Castiel no longer has wings.

***

The call clicks over to voice mail once again and Sam throws his cell across the library. It catches the back of the farthest chair, spins and smashes to pieces at the base of one book shelf.

There's half a bottle of whiskey flowing through his blood stream, numbing some of the keener emotions that desperately want to boil to the surface. He's angry, of course, and heartbroken.

A bitter laugh break from him. How was it they'd wound up here? Again?

He fists the half-gone whiskey bottle and takes a swig. Screw being civil. Screw drinking from a glass. Not like Dean was around to bitch at him anymore.

Another cresting wave of pain tore at his chest and he rubs at his eyes desperately trying not to cry. A hand clutches his shoulder, and squeezes. "Sam," says the unmistakeable British twang of Crowley. "You rang?"

The King of Hell makes his way around the table and sits down in the chair that was so often Dean's. He reaches for the clean, upturned tumbler (Dean had left it sitting there waiting for when they returned from running a knife through Metatron. What a joke.) and indicates for Sam to hand over the bottle.

He half considers throwing the whole damn thing at his head. He half considers making Crowley get out of that chair to get the thing himself. Instead he settles for spitting, "What took you so long?" and sliding the whiskey across the desk.

Crowley catches it, and pours himself a measure. "It might surprise you to learn cleaning up the Winchesters' messes isn't exactly high on my list of priorities."  
Sam grimaces in Crowley's direction and desperately wishes had still had a drink.

"Especially," he continues, "not when you boys keep planning on killing me."

That same bitter laugh passes his lips. "Not 'boys' anymore, Crowley. You not heard?"

Crowley pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth. "I heard." There's none of his usual sass coating his tone. For once, he sounds fairly sincere. That is until he waves the glass in Sam's direction and says, "I'm just a little curious as to why you'd turn to me first? Surely feathers would be a better choice for raising your brother. It's not exactly a stretch to see Castiel would _want_ his favourite Hardy boy alive. But me, Moose?"

Sam stretches across the table and rescues the remains of whiskey. He gulps down two large measures, and welcomes the burn of it down his throat. "Radio silence," Sam admits, nodding over to the smashed cell on the floor. "Probably means Metatron stabbed an angel blade through his heart too." Another mouthful, another bitter smirk. "So Plan B, Crowley. What you gonna offer me?"

Crowley studies him over his half drained glass of whiskey. "As tempting as snatching up your soul for eternal damnation is, Moose, can't say I'm all that interested. You boys have an uncanny ability of wriggling outta your contracts and I'm sure good ol' Cas – if he's around – still has enough juice left in him to smite me if I get too close to cashing in your overgrown chips."

Sam snorts into the bottle. "Figures."

“Tell you what Moose,” Crowley says, “I'll help, if I can.”

“Oh yeah? What's it gonna cost me?”

Crowley smirks and drains the last of his whiskey. “Something that belonged to our favourite dear, departed prophet.”

That piques Sam's interests, and he straightens up in his chair, pinning Crowley down with narrowed eyes. “You want something of _Kevin's_?” he asks incredulously.

“Call me sentimental,” Crowley tries.

“Bull,” Sam says. “The kid is dead Crowley, can't you let him rest in piece.”

“And I will,” the King of Hell says, leaning across the table towards Sam. “I just need to summon him. Briefly. A short chat. I want a little clarification on one of those tablets and then he can be on his merry way.”

Sam weighs the offer. The part of him that still dreams of his hand smiting the life from Kevin is repulsed by the idea. His eyes dip down to look at his empty palms and he feels nauseous. _Don't consider it, just don't_ , that part pleads.

“You raise Dean first,” Sam says, knowing that Dean be okay with running Crowley through with the Blade before selling out Kevin again.

“Naturally,” Crowley says.

“And then you summon Kevin here, in the bunker, where I can keep an eye on you.” Sam can't quite believe the words that are pouring out of his mouth.

Crowley narrows his eyes and mulls the offer. “You got yourself a deal there, Moose.” Crowley holds his hand out across the desk.

Sam eyes it. “A handshake?”

“Don't expect me to go kissing you,” Crowley replies. “Don't want to get all tangled in those antlers.”

Sam purses his lips and scowls. There are several things he'd like to say to that, but he reaches across and takes Crowley's hand. “Dean's this way.”

Sam raises from his chair inelegantly and stalks down the short flight of steps towards the rooms. His shoulders are rounded, and he can feel the ghost of Dean's weight bared across them. Each footstep is a little harder to take, a little heavier to carry. He remembers holding his brother up and carrying him with desperate, shuffling steps. Get to the car, get to safety, get anywhere that's far from here. Just _stay with me_.

He doesn't turn towards Crowley to know the demon is following him. He pauses before pushing open Dean's bedroom door. He has the overwhelming urge to knock, to just rap his knuckles against the wood and wait for his big brother to rip this thing almost clean off the hinges and beam at him with his goofy grin. He'd say, “Heya Sammy,” and Sam would pretend he was annoyed when actually he wasn't.

In the recess of his mind, he swears he'd left the door open.

It's almost too hard to open the door. He wavers on the spot and tries to think of anything except the way he'd carried Dean's lifeless body down these halls and onto the bed. Had laid him down gently after cleaning away the excess blood from his face and hands. How was it that he'd had to do that twice now?

His hand on the brass door nob, Sam winces. Last time he'd had Bobby. Last time, he hadn't been alone.

With Crowley lingering at his shoulder, he pushes the door open and steals himself for the sight of Dean's dead body.

The room is empty.

Sam does a double take and turns to Crowley. Part of him wants to throw accusations, but his brain can't seem to get his mouth open. He turns back to the empty room. It's much the same as he'd left it, when he'd gone to summon Crowley in the first place. There's even blood stains on the bedsheets where Dean had lain. Fleetingly Sam can't help but think of Dean's look of abject horror if he saw it and the way he'd undoubtedly bitch to high heaven: _Come on Sammy, we're_ _ **hunters**_ _for crying out loud! You know how hard it is to get blood out of just about anything. And my_ _ **bed**_.

“Well, this is very dramatic,” Crowley sneers from the doorway. He's leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“He was here,” Sam says, finally finding his voice.

“Corpses don't just re-animate themselves, Moose.” He picks at an invisible piece of lint on his dark overcoat. “I thought you were meant to be the intelligent one of the operation.”

Sam feels broken. The cracks that had fissured through him when Metatron had twisted the angel blade into Dean's chest, that had started to rupture as he carried his dying brother towards the Impala, that quaked as Dean clapped him on the face and told him he was proud of them, that had scraped against one another, threatening to open up chasms inside of him with every phone call to Cas that went unanswered, they all finally win.

He wonders how he's still standing upright. There's not enough whiskey in his system to dam up the flood. As if he's still six years old and begging Dean to tell him what Dad gets up to when he leaves them alone in motel rooms for days on end, he turns to Crowley and wants to beg him to help him understand this. Dean died and now he's _gone_. That doesn't make sense, not in the slightest.

Without a body, Sam can't bring him back. Without a body, Dean's really gone.

Somewhere off in the distance, a great pounding rattles the bunkers front door on its hinges.

Absurdly, Sam thinks it could be Dean but he knows that's complete and utter bullshit. Crowley turns towards the sound and contemplates it for a few seconds. “Ah. Looks like Feathers isn't dead after all Moose,” he says. “Rejoice for the Lord hath blessed ye.” He smirks a little. “If you find Squirrel, drop me a line. My end of the offer will still stand.” He snaps his fingers and he disappears.

Sam doesn't move, isn't sure he really can. The pounding on the bunker is ceaseless, and thrums under his skull like a bass line.

He doesn't remember when his knees met the floor, doesn't remember when the tears started falling. It's not until he feels the marble-like touch of an angel's hands on his shoulders that he even registers the banging on the bunker door's stopped.

Cas' grip verges on painful. Sam finds he doesn't mind too much.

He leans in heavily and hugs the angel. He's relieved he's here. Cas, at least, has to understand how much this hurts.

“Metatron said-” Cas' voice is thick, and cracks before he can carry on. He doesn't continue his sentence, almost like by holding the words in he can stop them from being true. He stiffens, pulls back from Sam and helps him to his feet. “It's good to see you, Sam.”

Sam feels the corners of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. “It's good to see you too, Cas.” Sam claps him on the shoulder. Part of him wants to admit that he's not sure what he would've been willing to do if Cas was gone as well.

“Have you slept?” The angels eyes are deeply concerned.

“Can't.” Sam can't quite meet his gaze. He wonders how Dean managed it with such astounding frequency.

Cas steers them out of the room with a firm hand around his elbow. They walk down the corridor and it's not long until Cas leads them into Sam's room and negotiates Sam down onto the bed. “Cas, I appreciate this and all but-”

Cas pins him with those blue eyes again and he feels like he's getting x-rayed. He's all business, with a frown marring his features. “We'll talk when you wake up.”

Cas grips his shoulder again and a wave of exhaustion hits Sam like a wall. “He's gone, Cas.”

“I know.” There's more sadness in those two words than Sam thinks he's ever heard pour from any one person before.

“But he was here and now he's gone.” Cas' hold tightens and Sam can barely keep his eyes open. He thinks he might be laying down.

“I know.”

“But-”

“Sleep, Sam.” Cas' fingers brush against his forehead and all there is, is nothing.

***

The artificial light bleaches the bunker of colour. Cas leans heavily against the desk, the remnants of Sam's cellphone at his feet.

How was it that only a day ago he'd sat opposite Dean at this very table and asked if the three of them would be enough to take on Metatron. He tilts his head to the side, glancing at the spot where Dean had slashed Gadreel with the Blade.

He sighs and closes his eyes, reaching out with his borrowed grace.

The smoky trails of Kevin's spirit as he screams down the halls, through doors and walls, as he smashes up china and explodes at the touch of salt.

A flash of Grace as Gadreel smites Kevin.

A smiling red-head that Cas doesn't recognise dying in a flash of green and burning back in brilliant blue.

He starts seeing the ghostly figures of the Men of Letters and knows he's gone too far backwards. He shakes his head, feeling like he's been punched in the gut. He takes a deep breath, though it achieves absolutely nothing, and reaches out once more.

Sam carrying his brother into the bunker.

Dean's face is cleaned of blood already, though there are cuts marring his features where Metatron's fist had clearly collided with his cheek.

His Grace fluctuates at the sight.

Dean being laid to rest upon his bed. Sam draining a large glass of whiskey and summoning Crowley...

Dean's room is blotted from his touch.

There's only darkness. No muscle memory to the place, just black.

Cas reaches out a little more insistently, but he can't permeate the fog.

He searches the rest of the bunker, tries to locate the tell-tale touch of Dean Winchester's soul but can't find it anywhere. He even searches for the fingerprint of Death, in case he had been the one to Reap Dean, but he can't locate that either.

When the black recedes, there's a flash of Crowley sitting at the desk opposite Sam, sharing a bottle of whiskey, shaking the youngest Winchester's hand and following him towards Dean's room.

Except there's no Dean.

It feels like a piece of his Grace fractures off.

He screams in anguish and the chairs around the table go flying. Books shoot out their shelves and paper sprays through the air like snowflakes tossed in a blizzard. The light bulbs splinter as he unleashes his True voice and he's plunged into a halflight.

Even though it hurts, even though he's barely got enough Grace left in him to do it, he reaches out one last time to be sure, desperately searching searching searching.

He drops to the floor and the expensive artefacts the Men of Letters had spent centuries cataloguing and studying shatter.

Sam's voice echoes in the chambers of his mind: _He's gone_. He hadn't just meant dead. He hadn't just meant spirited away, far away, from where Castiel would struggle to drag him back.

He'd literally meant that Dean was _gone_.

When the sob is torn from him, it comes with a hurricane. Tears sting in his eyes and slide down his cheeks and outside, far above him, it starts to storm.

He doesn't have much Grace left, and definitely not enough to find Dean, let alone raise him from wherever his brilliant soul was torn away to. But he has Grace enough for this.

He has Grace enough to mourn.

***

  
The Lebanon United Methodist Church sits on the corner of East Silver Street and North Cherry Street. A block away, at the Breakfast Club Cafe, they serve pancakes and waffles half-price on a Sunday morning, with a free cup of Joe for those attending service. It's a family run joint, headed by Carla Williams and her husband George, who's father was once the Parish Reverend before he passed some thirteen years ago.

And though the good Reverend Davies may be gone, Carla, and her family are still heart and soul of the community. The church is their second home, and Reverend Matthews welcomes them with open arms any day of the week.

The church itself is a white faced building with large colourful windows and a neat little cross sitting on its steepled roof. Around the back is a little garden where the children attending Sunday School are encouraged to plant flower seeds and nurture them to growth. A place to watch God's work truly in motion.

Carla Williams remembers doing so, at the age of five, getting dirt clogged up her short nails, and throwing a worm at Johnny Peterson, who'd shrieked like a little girl and cried for his mom when it got stuck in his blonde hair. Her father had scolded her, but she'd shrieked in delight. Her sunflowers grew highest that year.

Now, aged forty-five, Carla kneels down beside the flowerbed that's starting to bloom with fuchsias and primroses, and misses her father. The sun is setting bright red and still warm on her bare arms, as she trims a few of the flowers from their bed and puts them into a small basket. She thinks she'll take them to his graveside. She know he would appreciate the gesture of their community's tradition.

When she straitens up, she notices a young man loitering under the apple tree on the far side of the yard. She left her glasses back at the café so can't make him out too well, save for his dark jacket and darker eyes.

He leans heavily against the trunk and stares at her unblinkingly. Carla pushes herself to her feet and tucks her basket of flowers into the crook of her arm. Feeling unsettled, she keeps the pair of gardening sheers in her right hand.

After several long seconds – far too many, if you ask Carla – the man raises his hand and waves at her. “Evening Ma'am,” he says. Even from this distance, Carla can see the wide grin cracking his face in two. “You have a minute?”

She glances down at her watch, knowing she's not got long until they close the cemetery for the night, and the kids get home expecting dinner. She could just make her excuses and head back to her car, but her feet take her over towards the man under the apple tree as if of their own accord, and he smiles – if possible – even wider.

Now she's close, Carla wishes she'd gone to the car. A dark red bruise circles a nasty cut on his left cheek, that still oozes a little blood as he smiles. He has a split lip, and a cut just under his eyebrow and...

Carla flinches.

His shirt is stained with blood. Is soaked with it. And there's a split in the fabric right over the heart, exposing a gash to his chest.

Yet here he stands.

“George said you'd be here,” the man tells her. “Wasn't too sure where I could find Annabel though.”

Carla feels cold, in spite of the warmth in the evening sun. How did this man know her daughter's name? “Who are you?” she asks. Her hand trembles as she clutches the sheers tighter.

“Names Dean,” he tells her. He smirks a little.

“Well, _Dean._ What do you want with my family?”

It's just for a second, but Carla swears his bright green eyes flash black.

“George,” he says, “didn't really want to talk about Annabel too much. Or Donnie. Or even Joseph. Which is understandable, considering what he liked to do to them all in the middle of the night.” Dean pushes away from the tree trunk and takes a step towards Carla. He's tall, much taller than she'd anticipated, and he towers over her short stature. “Tell me Carla,” he says, leaning down so their faces were level. “Were you aware of what your husband liked to do to your babies?”

“You're a filthy liar. Now get away from me.”

Dean snatches hold of her upper arms and she struggles against his strength. The neatly cut flowers fall to the floor. “Tell me!” he screams in her face.

Carla lashes out, stabs the sheers into his side and, in the seconds it takes for him to realise and release her in shock, Carla makes a run for it. She should go for her cell and call the cops, or find her car keys and get the hell outta there, but something slams into her. Something invisible. And she goes flying into the earth like she'd tripped over a tree root. She squirms and tries to scramble onto all fours.

“Thing is Carla,” he man shouts, “I know you told Annie she was a liar too.” The same invisible force flips her over and sends her skidding into the flowerbed. Her weight flattens the neat little plants.

It's gotta be a trick of the light, but one second Dean's still by the apple tree, and the next he's crouching down in front of Carla, and wrapping his fingers around her throat tightly.

“You're her parent,” he spits in her face. “You're meant to protect your kids. You do whatever it takes, regardless of who you hurt in the process.”

Black bleeds across his pupils and fills his eyes and this time, it doesn't budge.

“What do you think I was doing?” she gasps, clawing at his hands. “Everyone would've found out. Found out what a little slut she -”

His hand tightens, cuts off her airway. “You failed her,” he growls into her face. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. “You failed all of them!”

With a final squeeze, he crushes her windpipe, twists her neck and she's gone.  
He drops her lifeless body and stands up, wiping his hand against his pants.

Someone starts slowly clapping behind him, and he turns around to see Crowley over by the apple tree, the First Blade tucked under his arm. “Very impressive, Dean,” he says. “You're taking to this like the proverbial duck to water.”

Dean doesn't much feel like acknowledging this with a response so he just turns back down towards Carla's unmoving body and kicks her over onto her front. He doesn't much feel like seeing her gormless, empty eyes looking up at him either. “When can I get it back, Crowley?”

“All in good time, Young Padawan.”

Dean makes towards him, but Crowley waves a hand and Dean stops in his tracks, unable to move. “Give it to me, Crowley.”

“Maybe later big boy.” Crowley grins wickedly. “Now, you can either come with me – your _King_ might I remind you – and offer me some assistance, or you can wait here for the heavenly host to rain down holy terror upon your sorry demonic backside. I don't care much either way, but if you're a good boy, I might let you play with your toy a little later.” He indicates the Blade under his arm. “What's it gonna be kid?”

The black seeps out of Dean's eyes and his shoulders soften. “Angels are coming?”

“Unfortunately,” Crowley tells him. “And not the sexy kind.”

“Then let's go, Chief,” Dean tells him, and with a snap of fingers, they're gone, leaving Carla Williams to rot alone in her father's once-beautiful church yard.

***

The bunker is pitch-black when Sam wakes up. He flips the light switch, on and off, but nothing seems to work and he's not got it in him to try more than once. His eyes half-adjusted to the lack of light, he snatches up the flash light from the top drawer of his night stand and switches it on. He grabs his gun up from under his pillow and flicks off the safety, making his way down dark corridor after dark corridor, guided only by his own minimal bubble of yellow light.

He turns into the library and is taken aback. It looks like a bomb rent through the place. Pages have been torn clean away from book spines and litter the floor so thoroughly, Sam can barely see anywhere untouched by paper. Some of the book shelves have caved down the middle, the wood splintered and their contents crumpled on top of one another or on the floor. A sword is embedded into the brickwork on the far side of the room, its stand smashed to pieces by the entrance to the library.

The chairs are scattered and lay in pieces and a great crack runs down the middle of the desk.

Dread pools in Sam's stomach. “Cas?” he asks tentatively. It'd just about top off the day to find Cas sprawled across the floor with ashen wings scorched into the floor from his shoulder blades.

Instead, he finds him slumped in a corner of the ruined library, face hidden in his arms, clutching John's journal in his hands. “Cas?” he tries again, and the angel turns towards him, ghostly pale, save for his bloodshot, puffy eyes.

“Hey man,” Sam says, crouching down beside Cas and touching his arm. “What happened?”

“I fear I may have overreached myself,” Cas tells him. “My Grace is not used to such a display any more.”

Sam's not quite sure what to say to that. He looks over his shoulder and spills light from the flash light across the trashed library once more. “This was you?” he asks, not really convinced Cas even had that much Grace left.

He nods by way of reply and pushes off the wall in an attempt to get up, but his vessel doesn't seem to want to cooperate and he drops back against it heavily.

Sam eyes Cas wearily, and keeps his hand outstretched, near the angel's arm, just in case. Part of him wants to ask why Cas would do this, but he has a shrewd idea what the answer would be, and he's not really sure he's ready to hear the answer spelled out so plainly.

Cas saves him from having to say anything when he says, “I'm very worried, Sam. Not only by your desire to deal with Crowley – though I can't say I'm all that surprised – but by what I saw.”

“Um, what?” Sam rocks back on his heels, wondering how Cas knew about Crowley and then figures he's also not that surprised by Cas' apparent omnipresence.

Cas pins him with a bitch stare Sam's fairly proud of, and attempts to get up again. He has a bit more success this time, sitting upright without needing to lean against the wall. He pants heavily at the exertion and says, “I saw you take him in there.” His voice is little more than a rasp and it trembles with every word. “But after you left-” Cas shakes his head. “Whatever took him, Sam, was darker than anything I've ever seen before.”

“I don't understand,” Sam tells him.

“I don't either,” Cas says. “But whatever it was knew an angel might be here, might see what they were doing, and they put obstacles in place to make sure I would be blind to them.”

Nausea sweeps through Sam's gut and last night's bottle of whiskey threatens to make a reappearance. This is worse than knowing Dean is dead. Worse than tucking him and his stomach of ribbons into a pine box and burying him in a a heavily wooded area in Illinois. Worse than drunkenly summoning any crossroads demon that might deal and shooting them in the head when they said no. Worse than Ruby, worse than demon blood, just worse.

Cas finally clambers to his feet and sways on the spot and for a brief moment, Sam can push the loss of Dean aside. Cas looks close to going up in a supernova if he brushed against anything too hard and he glances down at his chest. “Cas, uh, angel's can tap into souls, right? For a power boost?”

Cas frowns at him. “Yes,” he says slowly, his eyes narrowing close to slits.

“Would that stop your grace from burning out?”

“Theoretically,” Cas says even slower.

“If you ever want-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cas-”

“No, Sam. I-” he pauses, looking down at his open palms. “I'm not that same angel any more. I would never put you through that. I'd rather die.”

Sam gives him a lopsided grin. “All I'm saying Cas, the offer's there. I'd rather you stuck around. I don't want to lose any more brothers.”

Cas' face softens and Sam gives a little nervous grin. “Come on man, you need to rest. Somewhere that's not a floor.”

“But Dean -”

“Can wait,” Sam says firmly, dragging Cas' arm over his shoulder to help steady the angel. “And then you can both blame me later.” This time, it's Sam that steers Cas from the library and down the hall. There's a room that had been set up – bed linen and books carefully chosen by his older brother – that he and Dean had unspokenly agreed belonged to Cas. Sam leads him there now, guided by the flash light and tells him to rest up whilst he tidies.

He starts by switching off the fuses, so he doesn't accidentally electrocute himself. Dean's voice rattles around in his head telling him that would be too hilarious to witness and that he'd like to see just how high Princess Sammy's hair could get when standing up on end.

He cuts his fingers trying to get the shattered bulbs out of their fixtures, but he doesn't care much. Not like it's the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. A little sharp glass is nothing compared to Hell, after all.

He replaces them and then switches the fuses back on, and the bunker blinks back to light.

Now he can see the carnage Cas caused, his heart sinks a little lower.

He sets about collecting the pages from ripped up books, piling them up as neatly as he can with a promise to himself he'd fix them all back together later. He manages to drag the sword out of the wall with a sharp tug and gets that resting on the table, which in spite of the large crack running through the middle of it, still stands steadfastly.

He goes at it for hours, methodically putting the bunker back to rights. It feels good, therapeutic even, to take something left in pieces and put it back together.

He straightens up, stretching out the aches running down his spine and looks around the now semi-tidy library.

If only life were this easy to fix.

***

He does his best to make Hell look presentable, and he tries even harder to make sure anything his new pet might see, in no way resembles the chambers Alastair once called kingdom.

Lorena bows to Crowley as he pushes through an ornate door into his private offices and then shrieks bloody murder when Dean follows behind. Crowley waves a hand and she's instantly mute, and he glances over his shoulder to see the Winchester smirking. "Your reputation clearly precedes you amongst my minions," the King of Hell tells him and Dean starts laughing.

"Man, I could get used to a welcome like that."

Crowley smiles indulgently and waves a hand towards the highly polished desk in the middle of the room. "Shall we?" He turns back to Lorena and shoos her away with a, "Be a good girl and let the other's know we have a new guest." He indicates Dean and she nods, her eyes flooding red in fear.

"Of course, My King." She turns and closes the door behind her.

Dean throws himself into the nearest empty chair and instantly kicks his dirty booted feet up onto the table. Crowley purses his lips at the sight but says nothing. He doesn't want to sound like a fussy mother after all. Instead, he stalks around to his own chair, unstoppers a crystal decanter of amber liquid and pours himself a measure into an expensive looking glass. "So, down to business."

"Got any pie?" Dean asks, craning his neck around the room as though a dessert trolley would just appear from thin air. His foot giggles about restlessly, specks of dried blood shaking off onto the desktop.

"I worry you're not exactly taking this seriously," Crowley says, taking a sip of the scotch. He hums at the taste - much better than the cheap shit Moose had been rotting his liver with earlier. He drops down into his plush leather armchair and watches Dean.

"I've not eaten anything in days," Dean tells him, twitching his fingers to spin an empty glass across the table and catching it in his outstretched palm. He looks delighted when he succeeds, and tries the same with the scotch. "I'm famished."

Dean pours out an over-large measure of the Glencraig, which makes Crowley's bottom lip twitch. Again he says nothing.

Dean tips back his neck and drains the glass like a man dying of thirst. He plonks the empty glass down on the desk, and the crystal chips ever so slightly at the base. Dean doesn't notice. Crowley does.

The Mark burns ugly and dark on the eldest Winchester's forearm and the King of Hell eyes it. "How're you feeling?" he asks. Truth be told he's more concerned than he'd ever dare admit.

"Fantastic," Dean tells the ceiling. A bit more mud drops onto the desk. "Though still hungry." As if he can feel Crowley's eyes burning against the Mark, Dean scratches it idly.

Weighing up his options with concern and his own desire to stay alive, Crowley bites the bullet and says, "You're lying to me." Dean snaps his head towards him sharply. "I told you, Dean, you can trust me."

The black bleeds through his eyes, he blinks and it's gone. "I need to kill," he says. "You said it'd be easier to deal with. It's not. Just-" he breathes heavily out of his nose and tilts his head back towards the ceiling. "Just let me kill something else."

Crowley surveys Dean with careful eyes and runs the backs of his nails up the stubble on the underside of his jaw. Airing on the side of caution for his own self-preservation is what Crowley does best, and with the likes of Dean Winchester lording around in the chair opposite, in snatching distance of the First Blade his blackened soul so desperately craves, Crowley figures it's probably for the best to give in to Dean's desires. Indulge him a little, and then reign him back in. After all, Dean could very easily turn on Crowley and sink that asses jaw into his own chest and that just doesn't bare thinking about.

All the more reason to keep him as far away from _Jolly Green_ and _Wings of Desire_ as possible.

"Tell you what," Crowley pitches, "I've got someone in mind."

"Shoot."

"There's a girl that offered up her soul. Gave her the usual spiel, she gave us a peck and off she trotted for ten lovely years until the time came for me to cash in. Thing is, Dean, when my pup went to make good, a certain hunter decided to knife my boy in the throat, and put a few cogs in motion to try and close off Hell. Now fortunately, your good self ballsed that plan up, but it still leaves the sticky wicket of our overdue soul." Crowley leans forwards, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass. "My minions can't track her - something about hex bags and Goofer dust, whatever the hell that is - but I believe I'm looking at the man that might know just where to find her."

Dean bares his teeth in a twisted grin. "Ellie, huh?" he asks, and Crowley nods. 

"Do this for me Dean, and the next thing you kill, you can use your Blade."

He jumps to his feet and sticks his hand under Crowley's nose. "You got yourself a deal, boss."

***

Cas wakes Sam up with a steaming mug of coffee and a gently hand on his shoulder and says, "A lady was found murdered in a churchyard half an hour from here and not long after, officers found her husband hacked to pieces in the kitchen of their home."

"Good morning to you too, Cas," Sam says, struggling out from his blankets and sweeping his hair from his face one handedly.

"Their children were located - all alive and safe - at the local park, though all showed signs of long standing sexual abuse."

Sam chokes on his mouthful of coffee and gapes at the angel that still stands at the side of his bed. "Why are you telling me this?" Sam asks.

Cas says, "Traces of sulphur were found at both crime scenes." And now Sam understands.

"Gotcha." He pushes off the bed and takes another mouthful of coffee. It's piping hot, and bitter as hell, but it tastes amazing, and revitalises his tired muscles somewhat. "You reckon we should check it out?"

Cas looks at him sadly. "Might as well," he says and turns out of Sam's room. Neither of them seem willing to broach the subject of Dean, and Sam is well aware that keeping busy, doing something good and worthwhile, will help keep him distracted.

He rushes down the corridor after Cas, calling for him to wait up, and then asks, "Hey, how're you feeling now anyway?"

For a second, it almost looks like Cas is about to start talking about feelings. And whilst Sam's not exactly adverse to that, it's been a long time since he had such a conversation with pretty much anyone, seeing as Dean's too emotionally stunted to string two words together (not to mention he diverts and deflects and usually calls Sam a girl), and that means he's really out of practice. But Cas reprieves him, and says instead, "Not great. But that's to be expected. My Grace is dwindling by the day."

Sam nods and takes another mouthful of coffee. "Thanks for this by the way."

The library still looks pretty forlorn, though it seems like Cas has made an attempted to fix the bookcases he had broken, by way of apology. Dean's laptop sits open on the cracked desk with a local news article about the double homicide and there's a notepad and pen beside it with an unintelligible scrawl.

Sam leans against the desk and reads through the page, before draining the last of his coffee. He glances over the notepad and then tilts his head towards Cas. "What language is this?" he asks curiously.

"A little Enochian," Cas says. "Some Babylonian. And a tiny bit of Sumerian."

"Right," Sam say. "You'll have to teach me some time."

Cas frowns at him but doesn't tug at the thread any more than that. "What concerns me the most," he says instead, "is why a demon would feel the need to rain down such righteous retribution."

Sam waves a hand at the computer screen and poses, "Unless the demon possessed the wife first?"

"It's a possibility," Cas confirms with a nod. "I'd be able to tell upon seeing the body."

It takes Sam maybe twenty minutes to spray on some deodorant and pull on his grey suit and head towards the garage. He's maybe halfway across the room, feet running on autopilot, before he catches sight of Cas standing beside the black car, hands on the roof and head bowed.

The back door is wide open and ice trickles down Sam's spine. The upholstery is definitely still covered in Dean's blood, and by the set of Castiel's shoulders, it's definitely a pipe dream to wish he hadn't seen it.

Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before clearing his throat to get the angel's attention. "I was, uh, gonna take one of the others," Sam says. Cas turns around, his chest heaving. He looks like he's on verge of tears. "There's not a lot of gas in the tank."

Cas walks over and hovers at his elbow. "I knew," he says quietly. "I knew. But it just makes it seems more real to see it."

Sam nods, even though Cas isn't really looking at him. He heads over towards the nearest, most inconspicuous car and climbs into the drivers seat, waiting for Cas to drop in beside him. From even here, he can see the dark stains inside the Impala, the smears of blood against her gleaming paintwork.

Dean would kill him.

But, he remembers with a sinking gut, Dean's not exactly here to see.

***

Ellie pulls into a Gas'n'Sip off the I40 in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and fills up the tank of the beat up station-wagon she calls home these days. She slinks into the little store to pay for the gas and grab some snacks for the rest of her journey to nowhere in particular. Idly, she fiddles with the hexbag in her pocket, a little talisman to protect her from the darkness that creeps just out of view.

She pauses in front of the shelves lined with chocolate, her fingertips dragging over the brightly coloured wrappers and she figures, screw it. She spends her time running from Hell Hounds and the threat of imminent death. Life is for living, and life is for enjoying. One chocolate bar isn't exactly gonna kill her.

She takes three different bars over to the counter, along with a few sandwiches and a couple of bottles of drink, pays in cash for the gas and heads back to the car, throwing her purchases into the passenger seat save for one of the chocolate bars. She unwraps it with gusto and bites off the top, closing her eyes in delight.

Her phone starts to beep from the depths of her bag, the tune she'd specially punched in to let her know mom was calling, and she fiddles about, to extract it.

She hits answer and tucks her cell under her ear and says, "Momma, good timing, I just stopped for gas."

Her mom doesn't answer, instead a gruff male voice says, "Hey Ellie, hope you don't mind me calling like this."

Her stomach drops out before she can place the voice properly and she demands, "Who is this? What have you done to my mom?"

He chuckles and says, "Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, I do sound different over the phone. It's Dean," he pauses and adds, "Winchester." Something almost like relief drips through her. "It wasn't your mom I really came to see, I was kinda hoping to catch up with you but you've changed your number since we last saw one another. Then I remembered you saying you mom was in Phoenix and I was in the area..." he trails off.

Ellie nods again and then remembers he can't see her. She's quiet and contemplative and she hears him sipping something down the receiver. "Tea's delicious, ma'am," she hears him say softly.

"Why are you there, Dean?" she asks finally, her heart thumping weirdly in her chest. She doesn't know him, not really, but he'd seemed like an okay guy, and he and his brother had helped save her life, given her as much borrowed time as they possibly could. He didn't seem like the kinda guy that would show up unannounced at her mother's house and harm her. Then again, she'd only been around him for a handful of days. She rubs her eyes. It was all a bit too much.

"Uh," he hesitates, coughs a bit. There's the distinct clink of china on china. "Remember we had that spot of trouble back at the ranch with those wolves?"

Ellie makes a noise of confirmation. How could she forget the Hell Hounds tearing apart the family she'd grown up beside? The Hell Hounds that had tried so desperately to tear her to pieces too?

"Something similar's been happening round mine and Sammy's new joint." There's a pointed edge to his tone and Ellie doesn't need to be a genius to figure he's speaking in code. "I might've figured out a way to sort it, but I thought I'd run it past you, seeing as you're the expert."

A smile breaks over Ellie's face in spite of herself and she asks in a hushed voice, "You found a way to get me out of my deal?" She can barely hold in her excitement. Getting out of the deal means she can finally put her life back on track. Settle down, bury some roots in the earth again.

"Yeah," Dean replies, and she can hear the grin in his voice. "I think I have."

Ellie leans heavily against the station wagon, holds the phone to her chest and looks up at the sky. "Thank you," she whispers. He raises her cell back to her ear and says, "I can be there tomorrow. Don't impose on my mom more than you need to - though I'm sure she'll make a fuss over a gorgeous guy like you."

Dean chuckles again. "Of course," he says. "I've pitched up in the Sunny Seasons about twenty minutes away anyways. Room 5. Just give us a call when you wanna meet up."

"Sure," she says. "I'll pop and see mom then come over."

"Perfect," he says.

"And Dean?" He makes hums down the phone at her and she continues. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." And he hangs up.

It's like a heavy weight has been lifted off of Ellie's soul and she grins down at the phone in her hand. She'd given up hope, knew that whatever happened, one day she'd die and that she'd have an express pass to the darkest depths of hell, where she'd be tormented ceaselessly for not paying up sooner. But if Dean had found a way to get her out of the deal all together...

She climbs into the driver's seat and sparks the ignition. Before she pulls out of the lot, she opens up her messaging and punches a text out. ' _I can't thank you enough_ ,' she types, and sends that to the number Dean had once saved into her cell. She throws it over into the passenger seat, amongst her earlier snacks, puts the car into start and pulls out onto the highway. She turns up the radio, a little AC/DC blaring from the tinny speakers and she belts the lyrics out, feeling giddy.

She was almost free.

***

Sam and Cas flash off their badges and get let into the morgue without any fuss. They ask to see Carla Williams' body first, thinking they might as well seek out any obvious signs of possession before getting carried away with the husbands torn up remains.

The M.E. hands them copies of their report and drags Carla's pale body from the chiller. There's bruising on her knees, and scraps on the heels of her hands. A bit of bruising on her belly, and blood bruises pooled in her chest and the right hand side of her face. There's no other signs of a struggle and it takes Cas all of ten seconds to catch Sam's eye and shake his head. Not possessed.

Sam asks to take copies of the report regardless, and the M.E. agrees, then puts Carla away and drags out her husband.

Before the nice lady pulls back the white, blood stained sheet, she tells them this is the most gruesome corpse she's ever seen in her entire career and if either of them hold any reservations, to walk away now. Sam and Cas shake their heads in unison, and she throws them one final, pitying look, before whipping back the sheet.

Mr Williams is indeed a gruesome mess. His nose has been flayed apart, but remains attached - just - at the septum. Both his ears are gone. Gashes line his cheeks, and great chunks have been cut away from his skull.

Hie left arm has been cut to pieces. Each finger accounted for, but no longer attached to the hand, which is no longer attached to the wrist. His forearm has been severed at the elbow, and his bicep cut apart like a science experiment, and the arm removed from the socket.

Each leg shows signs of similar treatment, as well as the right arm.

His stomach has been opened and stitched back shut. The stitching was clearly done after the post-mortem, the opening, not so much.

Incredibly, his eyes are still in tact, not touched at all, and Cas muses out loud that perhaps his killer wanted Mr Williams to see what was happening to him.

Sam wants to beat his own head against the wall, because the M.E. gives Cas a startled look and wrings her hands.

Sam waves a hand for her to cover Mr Williams back over, and he feels a little nauseous. It's not like Sam's not seen worse before. Dean looked pretty rough the first time he buried his brother - Hell Hounds are hardly picky on where they bite - and he literally watched Jessica burn to oblivion on the ceiling of their apartment; he acutely remembers how hard it was to wash out the stench of burning flesh from his hair. But there's something unsettling about the dissection of the man on the steel slab before him.

Sam's seen enough monster vics in his lifetime to know there's something all too human about this man's demise.

Cas thanks the M.E. for her time and for the copies of her documents and twenty minutes later, he and Sam are clambering back into the car. "Definitely not a demon possession," Cas tells Sam as soon as the car door snaps shut.

"Figured as much." Cas offers the reports but Sam just shakes his head and indicates for Cas to throw them in the back. "So back to square one," he says after a few awkward minutes of silence.

He kicks the car into gear and drives them back to the bunker, figuring now's probably as good a time as any to get the Impala cleaned up and start hitting the books.

Cas claps him on the shoulder and offers to help him clean up, but Sam shakes his head. He can't ask this of Cas. No. He _won't_. Dean was his brother, and this is hardly the first time he's had to clean up his mess. Cas shouldn't have to get his hands dirty with Dean's blood.

He can't quite bring himself to even think of the L-word, but he knows that whatever Cas felt for Dean - and vice versa - probably verged pretty close to it.

He watches Cas retreating to the library - saying something about scouring the news for anything else that might be a lead - and heads towards the cleaning equipment that's been stored neatly in a cupboard the other side of the garage.

He shrugs off his suit jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves and sets about scrubbing at the dried blood. He's almost done when he hears something vibrating against the cars body. He straightens up, tosses the cloth to one side and scowls at the Impala.

The vibrating sounds one last time before stopping entirely. He doesn't exactly have time for this, and then remembers he has time for pretty much anything now, so he pops the trunk and rummages through the plethora of mess Dean likes to call their weapons collection. He can't spot anything that might've made the noise, so swings round the passenger side and opens the glove box instead. Several fake IDs, a collection of FBI badges, and pushed right up in the back is a cellphone with – surprisingly – a sliver of battery life left in it.

The display screen shows one new message and Sam frowns at it.

Who exactly would be texting them? He knows he often jokes to Dean that all their friends are dead but... he glances over his shoulder to the door back to the main part of the bunker, through which Cas had disappeared. With the exception of the angel upstairs, and Charlie that's currently adventuring in the land of Oz, _all their friends are dead_.

Wait, he thinks, _Jody_ , and he opens the message expecting the good Sheriff Mills to be checking in on them, or else asking for some assistance - _I can't thank you enough_.

The number is unknown and Sam rereads the message - _I can't thank you enough_ \- frowning at the screen.

As though sleep walking, Sam's feet take him upstairs and he automatically hunts out Cas, who's piecing back together a hand written journal. "Can you get a read on who sent this?" Sam asks, waving the phone under Cas' nose.

The angel frowns at the rectangle of light then says, "No," and goes back to fixing the book.

Sam throws Cas his very best bitch face, but Cas pays him no attention. He picks the phone back up and punches out a quick reply. ' _Sorry_ ,' he types, ' _phones swallowed all my contacts whos this again?_ '

Whoever it is doesn't text back right away, so Sam pulls his laptop forwards and starts to hunt.

It's twenty minutes before he learns the phone is an unregistered one, and then it takes another hour or so of digging and hacking for him to find out the text was sent from somewhere in north-west Arkansas. He mouths the name and the frown grows a little deeper.

He makes a pot of coffee and brings a mug back for himself and Cas, and as he hands over the steaming cup, Cas nods at the phone and says, "That beeped whilst you were gone."

' _Ellie silly. Get many girls thanking u in the same day Dean?_ ' the text says, and Sam's heart flips right out of his chest.

Another few seconds pass before another message comes through, ' _See u in the morning :)_ '

Sam struggles to form words, can't work anything past his lips. His hands are trembling so much he can barely believe he's still got hold of the phone.

"Cas," he croaks, his throat constricted and his voice rasping. He coughs and tries again, a little clearer, a little more insistently. "Cas."

The angel tilts his head up, but doesn't take his eyes from his handy work.

Sam says the only thing his brain can think to say and that's, " _Dean_."

Cas is out of the chair like a shot, snatching the phone from Sam's trembling hands and reading the messages for himself. There's a flicker of disappointment in those blue eyes once he's finished reading, but he masks it well before handing the phone back over. "Who is she?" Cas asks, and if Sam didn't know any better, he'd say there was a fleck of jealousy running like a vein through the question.

Sam clears his throat and says, "Girl we met back in Idaho." He shakes his head. "I'd forgotten all about her."

Cas nods sagely. "Why would she be texting one of Dean's spare cells?"

"No idea," Sam admits. "And even less idea why she'd be under the impression she was meeting with Dean tomorrow."

Cas worries at his lip. "Unless..." he trails off and fiddles with the sleeve of his trench.

"Unless?" Sam needles.

Cas closes his eyes and says, "Unless whatever took Dean, possessed him."

Sam winces at the suggestion and shakes his head. "No way. He's got the tattoo. And the bunker is completely warded against all things demonic."

Cas pins him with an intense stare. "Not all things," Cas counters. "Crowley worms his way in and out of here like it's a cheap motel."

Sam purses his lips but doesn't say anything. Because Cas is right. They let Crowley in once and now he knows exactly which wardings to get past to let him inside. And once he starts down that train of thought, his mind decides to remind him that Crowley had been Jonesing enough for human blood to slip up and let Abaddon know all about the First Blade. Who knows what else he let slip to the wrong people?

"What else could it be?" Cas asks, almost desperately. "Because honestly Sam, I can't think of anything else that might take your brother."

"Crowley was trying to help me," Sam points out.

"Maybe," Cas says. "That doesn't mean one of his minions didn't think it could be fun to ride Dean Winchester."  
A spark ignites in Sam's gut and he bends over like he just received a physical blow. Cas' hands are on his shoulders instantly, and he's saying Sam's name and rubbing circles into his back and he sounds so worried and Sam almost can't say it, can barely even think it, but he says, "Metatron stabbed him in the heart." He looks into Cas' concerned eyes and he wants to be sick. "He stabbed him right through his tattoo."

***

It takes all the strength Cas has not to blow out his Grace again. Instead he settles on driving to the nearest crossroads, spray painting a devil's trap and throwing the necessary items into a little tin box with his photo. The moon hangs heavily in the sky, blowing light onto his endeavours and he sends up a silent prayer to no one in particular in hope that no one comes by whilst he does this. It's still fairly early after all, even if it is dark, and it wouldn't surprise him if any cars were to come past.

Sam had remained at the bunker, trying to get an idea where Ellie could've been going that was a days drive from Arkansas. They didn't have much to go on, but Sam wouldn't be swayed.

Cas waited several minutes, until someone coughed behind him. An overweight teenager hovers not far behind him, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes blood red. "Fuck," he spits, as soon as Cas turns towards him. "Are you _kidding_ me? You don't even have a soul to sell! This is bullshit!"

The demon smooths imaginary lines in his forehead, and glances down at the child he's possessing. "And now I'm gonna get smited in this thing."

"Smote," Cas corrects automatically.

The demon flinches at the sound of Cas' voice, and Cas takes that as a small victory. He can, at least, still strike a little fear of heaven into the creatures of the pit.

"I want to know what's come of Dean Winchester," he says, quick and to the point and all colour drains from the demon. First from his eyes and then from his face.

"Don't know nothing," it says.

Cas raises an eyebrow, "Which means by definition you know something."

"Nope."

Cas narrows his eyes and takes a step forwards. "Don't lie to me."

"Not got quite that much conviction in your voice there angel. Do you even have enough juice to _try_ and smite me?" He leers at Cas, runs his red eyes up and down Cas' body and starts to laugh. "You're a mess. I don't even know how you're standing upright. Do whatever you want _angel_ ," he sneers the word.

And with that, Cas smirks, flicks his wrist and the demon goes spinning into the invisible wall of the devil's trap. He mutters a handful of words in Enochian and the demon writhes against the concrete, muddying up the knees of the teenagers jeans. There may be just about enough Grace in him to hold him together, but that doesn't mean he can't do what an angel does best.

He crouches down and grabs the demon by the throat. "Where is Dean Winchester?" he repeats.

The demon's eyes go red again. "I don't know."

Cas says a few more words in Enochian and the demon spasms under his grip. Cas feels for the boy the demon is possessing, but this is why he slips into his native tongue. He can attack the demon, torture it even, and leave the human it's possessing unscathed.

"I said I don't know!" the demon shouts.

"What about the demon possessing him?" Cas questions and that gets the demon's attention.

"No one's possessing him," he says thickly. Cas starts to open his mouth again, guttural Enochian reverberating in the back of his throat but the demon shrieks, "I swear! I swear! No one's possessing Dean Winchester!"

"Okay," Cas says, and he can't help but feel a wash of relief, even though he's not entirely sure the demon in his hands isn't lying. "Then you can-"

His cell phone rings in his pocket. The demon looks down at the sound and then back up at Cas.

Cas chooses to ignore it until it stops ringing and then tries again, "You can-"

The cell starts up again and the demons clears his throat and says, "Er, are you gonna get that?"

Cas huffs and drops the demon to the floor, thrusts his hand in his pocket and takes out his phone. Sam's name is flashing on the screen and he answers it with a snapped, "Yes?"

"Ellie's mom owns a house down in Phoenix," Sam says without preamble. "And it's about a days drive from north-west Arkansas." A pause and adds, "It could be nothing."

Cas looks down at the demon that's rubbing his throat and glowering up at Castiel. "It's the best lead we have," Cas tells him. "I've got nothing here."

"I'll load up the car," Sam says. "See you soon."

Cas pulls the demon up by his collar and levels his face with his. "If I find out you've lied to me, hell will be nothing compared to the wrath I will reign down on you," Cas threatens. "Now pass along a message to anyone you come across in the pit; if I find _any_ demon has harmed Dean Winchester, I will lay waste to hell."

"You don't have it in you," the demon says with red eyes and a twisted grin.

"Then you don't know who I am," Cas says. For a moment, he's the same angel that tore through hell to raise the Righteous Man. He can feel his wings and his halo extending from his Grace, feathers pricking at his shoulder blades and arching obsidian as the night, high above his four faces and his halo gleaming gold as the sun. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for Dean."

And before the demon can do anything more, Cas spits out a handful of Enochian, the demon's skin flashes lightning and red smoke pours from its mouth.

Cas checks the boys pulse, and it thrums under his touch. Cas lifts his dead weight across his shoulders and gets him out of the middle of the road. He pulls a twenty from his trouser pockets and thrusts it into the kids fisted hand, then touches his forehead to spark a bit of wakefulness through him.

He calls for a cab once he gets back to his car, so he doesn't feel so bad not taking the kid back home himself, but he knows he's not got much time to lose. He guns the engine and within ten minutes he's pulling up outside the bunker next to the Impala.

Sam leans against her hood, dark jacket wrapped around him to protect against the evening's growing chill. "Ready?" he asks once Cas extracts himself from his car and heads towards the Impala. He nods and Sam continues, "I'll take first shift. Get some rest and you can take over in a couple hours."

"You'll let me drive her?" Cas asks, fingers touching the door handle lightly.

"It's no big deal." Sam shrugs, even though they both know Dean wouldn't dare let Cas drive his baby. But a leaden weight settles in Cas at the knowledge. "C'mon,” Sam says, “we need to get going.”

***

Ellie hugs her mom tightly and tells her she's only popping out for a little while and she'll be back for dinner tonight. Her mother pecks her cheek and tells her in no uncertain terms is she allowed to miss it because she's looking thin in the face and she can feel her bones shifting under her skin. Ellie rolls her eyes and says, “Yes Momma,” before folding herself back into the driver's seat of her car.

 _Soon_ , she thinks. Soon the weight will be lifted.

She shifts into gear and pulls off her mom's drive, heading south west towards the Sunny Seasons. Her mom had been enamoured with Dean, told her he was a charming young man that said his pleases and thank yous, and called her ma'am a lot. She'd hinted Ellie could bring him back round any time she liked, and that had made her flush to her roots. Dean had been very clearly uninterested last time they met, and Ellie had gotten the impression she just wasn't his type.

The Sunny Seasons looks like it's not long had its grimy underlay covered over in a fresh coat of bright and cheery cheap paint.

The sun beats hot and heavy, high up in the brilliant blue sky, and Ellie shields her eyes as she scans the neat ring of motel rooms. The lot is empty enough that she can tell the fancy black muscle car the Winchester brothers had driven was nowhere to be seen, which she finds odd.

A middle-aged man comes out of the office, his face red from the heat and dabbing at his bald head with a handkerchief. He waves his free hand in welcome and Ellie wanders over.

"What can I do for you today, little lady?" he asks in a heavy Southern drawl.

"Room 5," she tells him. "I'm meeting up with a friend."

He grins and points her to a room in the farthest corner. "Have a good day," he says with a little lecherous wiggle of his eyebrow. "You can always pop back here once you're done."

Ellie stalks over with a huff, feeling the guys eyes burn on her back, and her ass. She pounds a fist on the room door and hopes to God that Dean answers quickly.

She hears him shout out, "Coming!" and then the door opens a crack. A solitary bright green eye appears, focuses on her face then disappears. He opens the door wide and beams at her. "Hey stranger," he says and pulls her into a tight hug. "You're looking good for a girl on the run."

He lets her go and she swots his arm as she makes her way into the room. "I told you," she says, "I stopped off at my mom's."

Dean nods and snaps the door shut behind them.

Ellie looks around the small motel room, thinking it looks like it's barely been touched. The two beds don't even look slept in, there's not even a solitary duffel bag laying around filled with clothes. There's just a weird smell of dog lingering in the air, and she assumes that's just been left over from the previous tenants.

"No Sam?" she asks, perching down on the edge of one of the beds.

"Yeah, he went into town," Dean says, waving an unnecessary hand towards the door she'd just come through. "There might be a few demons in the area. He said he'd check it out whilst I waited for you." He hovers by the desk, his hands lingering on an unopened bottle of Jack and he offers, "Drink?"

"Depends," Ellie says.

"On?"

"What I need to do to get these demons off my back."

Dean nods sagely. "Not much. The first half is a pretty simple spell."

"And the next?"

"Summoning the son of a bitch and ganking them."

"When can we start?"

Dean grins at her, pours himself a glass of the whiskey and shakes the bottle at her. "Sure I can't tempt you?"

She rolls her eyes hard. "Whatever, Winchester," she says, and holds out her hand for the offered bottle. She kicks it back and takes a swig like a pro and Dean sits down on the opposite bed.

"I gotta say, eighteen months on the run from Hell Hounds is pretty damn impressive." He drains his glass and holds it out for Ellie to top him up, which she does. "No offence or anything, but I know seasoned hunters that haven't even been able to keep it up that long."

She giggles and takes another swig. "Sure we're still talking about Hell Hounds?"

Dean grins widely. "Dunno. Do you wanna be?"

A warm flush floods through her, pooling between her legs, and rocketing up her spine. She can blame it on the early morning booze all she wants, but his voice vibrates right in her core and she can't help herself. She should be concerned with sorting the deal and freeing herself, instead she takes another mouthful of Jack, pushes off the bed and takes a couple steps til she's in between the v of Dean's legs.

Because he's a gentleman, he doesn't go straight to touching her, just looks up at her through heavily hooded eyes. The light gleams around him all golden and warm and she's drawn in like a moth to flame, just like she had been last time. Who knows, maybe she's his type after all.

His broad hands go to her hips and he pulls her in, til she's straddling his thighs and pressing her mouth to his. Yup, just as good as she remembered. This time though, he kisses her back with earnest, his grip tightening just on the right side of pleasure-pain. "Hey Ellie," he says, nibbling at her bottom lip.

She melts into him, presses kisses at the pulse point at his neck and he huffs a moan and holds her a little tighter. His hand fists through her hair and he drags her mouth back up to his.

 _This is so stupid_ , she thinks, rolling her hips down into his groin. _We should be saving the sex until after saving her life_ , and she doesn't realise she's just said that out loud until Dean's flipped her onto her back and is leaning over her with a wicked grin.

"Stupid, huh?" he asks, leaning down to lavish kisses at her exposed stomach where her shirt had ridden up.

She threads her fingers through his hair and tugs him up, saying, "You know I didn't mean it like-" but her voices catches in her throat and her blood runs cold, cause one second Dean Winchester is looking at her like he's about to eat every last drop of her and the next his eyes are flooded black.

She kicks out from under him, scrambling up the bed, her heart thumping violently beneath her ribcage. Dean's still on his knees, his hands up in surrender, eyes back to green. "Woah, woah, what's up?" he asks, looking pretty hurt and Ellie shakes her head, her whole body still trembling.

"Your eyes," she hisses at him, her legs curled up over her chest protectively.

Dean looks damn confused at that and repeats, "My eyes?" Slowly, he lowers his hands and lets out a little laugh. "Sammy must've been right about those demons."

"What?"

"Demons in the area. Must be here with Hounds," Dean offers. "Remember last time? Hell Hounds can make you hallucinate."

Ellie remembers Dean's face twisting grotesquely, his jaw breaking free and twisting, his eyes black and his face ashen, gaunt... hellish. She nods. "Right." Her hand automatically goes to her pocket, searching for the hex bag and finding nothing.

Fuck.

She'd showered at mom's. Stripped off her clothes and left them in a pile on the floor of the spare room, thinking she'd wash them when she got back that evening.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she climbs off the bed and picks back up the bottle of whiskey. She can feel Dean's eyes on her back, and she takes a swig to try and calm her nerves. She holds a hand over her chest, her fingers nudging at the necklace she'd brought down in New Mexico last year and an idea sparks.

"You okay?" Dean asks. She glances over her shoulder and he's still perched on the bed, though one leg has dipped over the side.

Ellie nods, and fiddles with her necklace. Inside is a shot of holy water and if she's clever enough, she'll be able to discretely pour it into the bottle of Jack. "I'm good," she says, trying her hardest to keep her voice from wavering and giving her away. "It just frightened me. Guess I've not been this close to Hell Hounds in a while."

She finishes her task, snaps the pendant back together, just as Dean's hands snake around her hips. She tries to remain pliant under his touch, as he spins her around to face him. "I got you," he tells her, and tugs the bottle from her hands.

For a heart stopping minute, Ellie doesn't think he's going to drink. It almost looks like he's just going to put the bottle down on the floor and lead her back to the bed. But he wavers, brings the bottle to his lips and knocks back a mouthful.

It's instantaneous. He chokes. The bottle drops and smashes. Steam issues from his mouth. His eyes are black.

"You little bitch," he spits vehemently, steam still pouring from his lips.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," she say quickly. " _Omnis immundus spiritus_ -"

But all he does is laugh. "Uh uh uh!" He waves his hand and she goes spinning over the bed. "I'd rather you stopped that."

The wind is knocked out of her, she can feel blood dribbling out of her nose, but she scrambles to get back upright and says, " _Omnis satanica potestas_ -"

"What did I say?" Dean asks pleasantly.

She manages, " _Omnis incursio_ -" then he presses a finger to his lips and shushes.

Her voice dies in her throat and she opens and shuts her mouth ridiculously. Her fear levels have sky-rocketed, she's surprised her heart hasn't just leapt clean out of her chest. She thinks she might be sick, her stomach churns so much.

Dean stands between her and the door. Well, whatever it is that's possessing Dean because Dean Winchester is good. Dean Winchester had saved her life and now...

"Y'know, I like you Ellie. A lot." Not-Dean grins at her, and he doesn't try and hide the black in his eyes any longer. "But there's a couple things you should know. One-" He snaps his fingers and she slams into the nearest wall and is pinned there. "-That little exorcism of yours isn't going to work on me, so best to just not even bother. Two - and take this as a free piece of advice - when your time's up, you should just deal with it."

He drops his hand and she skids down the wall. It takes nearly a minute for her to gather back brain function, and a little longer to realise her voice is working again. "Dean?" she asks, trying to get the attention of the man being suppressed by the demon.

Not-Dean laughs hard. "Not quite," he says.

"Who are you really?" she says, not daring to move too far away from the wall in case the demon gets the great idea to pin her up against it again. "Because Dean Winchester -"

"Is dead," he tells her. He pulls his dark t-shirt down at the collar to expose a unhealed wound right over his heart. "And now, he's experiencing a new kind of life. You could say it's been eye opening for him." His eyes flash and she glowers at him in disbelief.

"Did you - did you just make a pun?!" she asks incredulously.

He laughs harder. "Better believe it sister." He drops down onto the other bed, elbows on his knees, and laces his fingers together. "Now, to your payment."

Ellie shrinks back against the wall. "My payment?"

Not-Dean nods. "It's eighteen months overdue, and the King is getting a little antsy about it. Personally, I could care less. But the boss is the boss."

"You're going to kill me?" Ellie asks.

"Mhmm," Dean hums. "It can go one of two ways. All I gotta do is whistle, and I can let the Hounds take you." He purses his lips for a moment, then says, " _Or_..."

"Or what?"

"Your other option is to let me take you. I promise to make it quick. Maybe not a hundred percent painless, but the closest you'll get." He pushes off the cheap mattress and takes a step towards her. "Take it from someone that knows how nasty it is to have overgrown dogs gnawing on your insides, I'd take option two any time."

Ellie wishes she hadn't used up all her holy water now, and curses leaving the hex bag at her mother's. Her heart jack-hammers, suddenly aware it only has a limited number of beats left. Each pump of blood through her veins is a little more painful than the last. She looks into his blown black eyes and says, "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Huh," Not-Dean says. "That's brave. Stupid. But brave."

"Go to hell," she spits."

Dean smiles. "Already been, Ellie." He's right up close now, his forearms on the wall either side of her head, trapping her. He buries his face in the side of her neck and she flinches at his touch. Her skin crawls. "They're gonna have so much fun breaking you. I'm almost a little jealous."

He moves away, cool air rushing in to the spaces Not-Dean had just vacated and he whistles, high pitched and jauntily. "Oh Juliet!" he calls.

She's not sure where it comes from, but one minute it's just her and Not-Dean in the room, and the next a giant dog crashes out of nothing, it's four large paws pounding against the floor. She hears the barking, the yapping, but it doesn't go right for her. It hovers just beside the demon, before he pats it on the head and he says, "Good girl. Dinner time."

Ellie dives to the right, and attempts to leap up onto the bed, thinking she might as well try and clamber around. But teeth sink into her ankle and holy shit that hurts. She slams face down into the mattress and comforter, before being yanked off the bed entirely.

She bashes her chin on the floor, and tastes blood on her tongue. The teeth release her, and she has a few seconds to attempt to get away, before the dog slashes across her back and she screeches at the pain.

She scrambles a little harder, a little more desperately, and then teeth are breaking the flesh at her side and she can barely see anything, her eyes are so flooded with tears. She screams a little more, and prays for help, anybody, oh God, someone please, how is no one in this motel checking on the death cries of the person next door?

She doesn't remember when she was flipped on her back, but the dog is making a mess of her stomach with it's teeth and its claws, and she can feel everything and oh God oh God oh God.

She's choking on her blood when it all stops. She's alive. Just about. But the dog's been called off, is slinking away, its muzzle covered in her blood.

Her chest heaves, her heart flutters and she just wants it to be over, please just let her die already, please please please.

Not-Dean floats in her vision, a furrow in his brow, like he's troubled by something. His hands are covered in her blood, there are flecks of it splattered across his face, mixed up with all his freckles. He cups the side of her face and says gently, "Don't say I never showed you kindness. I'll see you soon." Then he plunges a blade into her heart and she can feel the life pushed right out of her.

***

Sam flashes his fake badge, introduces himself as Agent Leiter, and asks the motel manager of the Sunny Seasons to point him in the direction of a room that might've been rented by a young Hispanic woman.

The manager informs him no such woman has rented a room, but that a hooker had shown up maybe forty-five minutes ago, and headed to Room 5, which had been hired out by a Mr. Richards. "I'd knock before heading in though, Agent. She ain't left yet."

Alarm bells clanging in his head, Sam says a hasty thanks, and indicates for Cas to follow him to the far right corner of the complex. He contemplates pulling his handgun from the back of his jeans, but instead, Cas glances over his shoulder and extracts a sawn-off from under his trench, handing it over to Sam with a nod.

Sam mentally counts to three, flexes his grip on the weapon, then kicks open the door.

The first thing he notices is the blood. It's sprayed up the walls, across the windows, splattered against the front of the tiny square telly.

The second thing is the stench of demon blood thrown into the mix. His nostrils flare and an itch of want catches in the back of his throat before he stamps it down. Any one else wouldn't have noticed it at all. But not anyone else used to chug the stuff like juice.

The next thing he clocks, is the figure bent over the dead body in the middle of the floor. Ellie. They're too late.

There's blood all over the demon too, caught in his short, dirty blonde hair, and stained over his dark grey jacket.

He freezes when Sam and Cas walk into the room, raises his blood soaked hands in surrender, but he doesn't turn around.

Sam's heart clenches painfully. He'd know that profile anywhere.

Behind him, Cas moans. A broken, "No," passes his lip.

The guy in the middle of the room starts to laugh.

Sam wants to turn to Cas and ask what's up. Ask what kind of demon it is possessing Dean. Ask what's he waiting for, smite the son of a bitch that'd snuck into Dean's dead body and taken him for a joyride.

But Cas does none of that, and Sam's patience snaps. "Get up," he says, hoisting the gun a little higher up.

The demon doesn't move, just laughs a bit more and Sam sees red. His finger flexes around the trigger and he's already firing a salt round into the bastard's back when Cas grabs the barrel and sends the rock salt into the wall instead. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Cas?" Sam demands.

Cas stands between Sam and the demon, blocking him from view. "It's Dean," Cas says, his voice shaking.

"No, it's not," Sam insists. "I know it looks like him, but it's not. He died Cas, he freaking _died_ and nothing we can do is gonna bring him back. Not whilst that thing is in him."

He shoves Cas to one side and fires the second round at the demon. This time it strikes it, and he drops forwards into Ellie's dead body. It stops laughing, and starts choking.

"Thought you'd be clever, huh?" Sam shouts. "Thought you'd humiliate the great Dean Winchester and have him kill a girl he'd saved? I'm gonna destroy you! I'm gonna rip you apart with my bare hands! I'm gonna-"

The demon turns around and it really is Dean's face staring back at him, Ellie's blood all over him, and eyes full of black. But he's smiling when he says, "No no, Sammy, do continue. Makes me all tingly when you start talking like that."

All the fight is drawn out of him, but it feels like poison has been pumped through him in its place. He's possessed, Sam tells himself. He's possessed, he's possessed, he's possessed.

"Thanks for the dose of rock salt though," the demon wearing his brother says. "It's gotta be, what? Nine years since you last clocked me with a round?" He whoops, rubs at his shoulder and rolls his neck, getting the bones to crack. "Man, that was a fun hunt. Why don't we clean out creepy old asylums any more?"

Someone has surely just cleaved out his heart and replaced it with fire, because this hurts, this hurts too much to be real. This can't be real, it can't.

Cas' hand is a reassuring weight on his shoulder. "Sam," the angel says softly. "Drop the gun." His voice echoes in Sam's head, but he can't quite engage. "Drop the gun, Sam," Cas repeats, but it's no use.

Sam had watched his brother die. Watched as the life had rushed right out of him. He'd cleaned him up, and brought him home, and he'd done what the pair of them had always done best. This hadn't been a part of the plan. This wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd have to contend with. "Dean?"

He grins widely. There's blood in his mouth, black in his eyes and all he says is, "Better believe it, little brother."


	2. Let The Water Lead Us Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Cas learn how powerful Dean actually is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ran away in floods of shame, I’ll never tell how close I came.

Cas sees the man standing in front of him but can barely believe his eyes.

It's been a long time, aeons perhaps, since he stood face to face with this. The last time stinking black smoke had curled around Dean Winchester's soul, the heat and the stench of Hell had rippled around him. He'd had no vessel and Dean had shrunk away from his brilliance, recoiled at the bright glow Castiel's Grace had given off.

He doesn't do that now. All he does is smirk.

His borrowed heart sinks through his stomach. There's barely anything of Dean's soul left. It's been tarred over and twisted, pinched and pulled into something unrecognisable. The scars that were left over from Alastair's attention have been picked open like a frayed seam, and darkness has poured between them.

He should've seen this sooner. Should've picked up on the signs. Had his Grace really depleted that much that he hadn't been able to notice the Mark of Cain pumping poison through Dean's body?

As if it noticed Castiel's attention, the Mark radiates on Dean's skin, and glows brilliant red like a fresh brand. It might be hidden from view by a sleeve of plaid, but Cas' eyes can see it.

He wants to rage, to lunge forwards and scrub at the tender skin of Dean's forearm until the Mark has been washed away. But he knows that would be useless.

"Like what you see, Cas?" Dean asks, with an exaggerated wink. The black in his eyes doesn't disappear.

He's suddenly all wrath and righteousness, boiling in his fractured Grace. Part of him wants to put the demon down in disgust. A knee jerk reaction to a millennias-old programming to smite something so abhorrent on sight. But he can't do it. He could never do it.

His rage is superficial; his heartbreak is the more prominent, more permanent, emotion. "I am so sorry," Cas tells him instead, and he means it.

He's sorry he failed him, he's sorry he wasn't there to save him. Sorry he couldn't heal him before Metatron spirited him from the world, only for Cain to pull him right back to it. Sorry he can't raise him. Sorry he can't remake him, the way he once did.

Sorry he was human when Dean needed him to be an angel most. Sorry he wasn't there to help Sam, allowing Gadreel to sweep in and wreck their happy balance. Sorry he hadn't noticed. Sorry he hadn't stuck around, choosing instead to play _Commander_ to his siblings. Sorry he had failed Dean so spectacularly, he was now the one thing he detested above anything else; the thing that had killed his mother, corrupted his brother, taken his father, and broken him on the rack.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Dean doesn't like that. His calm shatters like a piece of glass and a swell of anger bursts from him in a split second. His lip curls, and he flicks his wrist, sending Cas and Sam flying into the nearest wall. "Don't you pity me," he spits. "Don't you dare. Don't you ever."

Cas is momentarily grateful he doesn't have cause to breathe, as Sam makes contact with the wall and exhales painfully. Sam wheezes out a, " _Dean_ ," in an attempt to soothe his brother, but for all the good it does, he might as well have not spoken at all.

"I am not yours to pity. I am not yours to feel sorry for. I am not yours." Dean balls his outstretched hand into a first and makes a tugging motion.

In unison, Cas and Sam go flying across the room, both skidding through the largest pool of Ellie's blood.

Cas pushes himself upright, with more ease than Sam, just as Dean says, "You mean nothing to me." His back turned to them and his shoulders are set. "Neither of you."

And Cas knows it shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't rip a hole right through the middle of him. But it does anyway.

"Stay out of my way," Dean says. He glances over his shoulder, his black eyes flitting between Sam and Cas. "Or I will kill you." And just like that, he's gone.

***

Dean pops up in his work room just as he flays the fingertips off a disloyal little shit that had licked Abaddon's boots and then crawled back to him the second she was dead.  
"Dean!" Crowley croons, wiping the blade off on his white apron and holding his arms wide.

Dean is bloody, and breathing heavily like he's just run a marathon and bugger it all, because this can't be good.

The kids hands are shaking and he looks about ready to cry. And Crowley panics. He panics because that means there's still something akin to human emotion rioting around inside Dean. He means Dean's not quite as demonic as Crowley would like. Which means he can't be fully loyal, which means Crowley could very well be screwed before this has even begun.

He flicks his eyes back to the whimpering sack of puss strapped up to his right, and then back over to Dean. The cogs in his brain whir into overtime. "Tell me what happened," Crowley says as gently as he dares. But he keeps his tone clipped, so Dean will remember who's in charge, so Dean will know this was an order, not a question.

"Sam," Dean says hollowly. "And Cas." He looks at the floor - burns a hole in it almost - and looks like he's trying to shrink in on himself.

Well this won't do at all. "Let me guess," Crowley says. "Princess Samantha and the Feathered Wonder tried to tell you that being a demon is Very Bad?"

Dean's shoulders round a little further, he tries to make himself a little smaller, and he mutters out, "Yeah, something like that."

"Need I remind you, that you are the worthy barer of the Mark of Cain?" Crowley snaps. "That you wielded the First Blade and slayed the last Knight of Hell?" Crowley takes a step forwards and tips Dean's chin up, so he's looking in his eyes. "You are magnificent, Dean Winchester. It's time you remembered that." Crowley turns and says, "Come."

Dean follows him across the room, almost as though he's in a haze, until he stops by his work bench of instruments. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to break Dean down to the animal he was under Alastair, but this? This is worth a try.

He unlocks a drawer and extracts the carefully wrapped object. He pulls the cloth away and extracts the First Blade. "You did good today," Crowley tells him. "You called in that deal all by yourself, and even gave Juliet a little treat in the process. You were methodical, you were clever. You hunted her down and your brought my payment to me." He holds the Blade out to Dean and gives it a little shake. "I keep my promises, Dean. This is your thanks for the wonderful job you've done."

Dean picks up the blade and the change in him is instant. The Mark flashes so brightly, Crowley can see it under the shirt sleeve, and Dean straightens. He beams at Crowley. "Thank you."

"Wanna give it a go?" Crowley asks, and nods at the writhing mess just over Dean's shoulder.

Crowley has maybe a second or two of doubt, where he worries perhaps Dean _will_ test out the Blade, but will sink it into Crowley's own face before turning on the creature pinned down like a butterfly. With the Blade, Dean's all but invincible. With the Blade, Dean's much more powerful than Crowley cares to admit.

Another second passes, and Crowley thinks that maybe Dean's got the same thoughts playing on his mind. Maybe that part of him that is so undeniably _Winchester_ will win over his sparkling new nature. But he turns around and surveys the snivelling mess that dares term itself a demon and asks the King of Hell, "What did it do?"

"Turncoat blew Abaddon's trumpet," Crowley says. "Then tried to deny such a thing had ever happened."

Dean hums a little. "Shouldn't do that," he says, maybe to the demon strapped down, maybe to Crowley, maybe even just to himself.

Dean hops up onto the table, and straddles the demon. It was once a man that had sold his soul in exchange for more wealth. One of the first deals Crowley ever struck up in fact. It pains him to see the mess this thing has turned in to, makes him almost a little sad.

"You know who I am?" Dean asks the demon, looming over him and twisting the Blade between his fingers.

The demon fearfully nods and Dean continues, "Know what this is?" He gives the Blade a little wave. The demon shakes its head. "Belonged to a guy named Cain. Rumour has it he used this to slaughter his own brother." Dean leans down until his face is barely an inch from the demon's face. "You don't say much, do you?"

Crowley clears his throat and says, "That would be my fault, I'm afraid. Cut out his tongue when he wouldn't stop begging for forgiveness."

Dean grins at Crowley. "Pity," Dean tells him. "That's my favourite part."

Crowley bobs his head, and leans against the desk of instruments. "Rules of Hell are different, don't forget, Dean my lad." To prove his point, he snaps his fingers and a glass of whiskey appears on the desk.

Dean watches him bring the glass to his mouth, watches as he swallows, and watches as he puts it back down again. Absently, Dean licks his lips, and his gaze is flushed full of hunger. Of want.

_Good_.

Dean turns back to the demon, clamps his hand down over its mouth and squeezes. There's a charge in the air, something static and powerful, and the Mark of Cain burns brightly under Dean's shirt sleeve once more.

The demon chokes and Dean lets him go. "No, no, no, no," the demon moans, his tongue back in his mouth. "Please, no. No. No. I'm loyal to the King. I swear it. Please no. Not the Winchester. Please, I'll do anything. Please just stop."

Dean laughs, long and low. His whole body shakes with it, and shakes the demon pressed beneath his legs. He rests the First Blade on his thigh and grips at the demon's throat. "Give me one good reason why I should?"

"I only joined Abaddon's cause because I was afraid!" the demon whimpers, his voice strained under Dean's tight grip. "She was killing any demon that even thought about rolling out the flags for the King!"

"Now that, I can believe," Dean tells him. He presses the First Blade's jagged edge up against the demon's throat. "She definitely hated Crowley enough for that to be true."

Dean makes an infinitesimal slice at the demon's neck and pulls the Blade away.

"It is! It is!" cries the demon.

"Just a pity," Dean tells him. "He might've been a bit more forgiving if you'd been willing to tell the truth." He leans back and runs the edge of the Blade down the demons chest. The cut is shallow, but the demon shrieks all the same, and starts to beg once more.

Crowley watches the show and grins the whole way through. It doesn't take long for Dean to grow bored of the demon's screaming, and he hacks its tongue out once more.

The demon chokes on its own blood and bastardised flesh, and Dean takes him apart piece by piece.

Alastair had taught him very well. And John Winchester had taught him even better.

When Dean starts bringing the Blade down, pummelling a gaping hole into the demons core and burning it out of existence, Crowley feels fairly confident that this partnership was going to work well. He makes a point of clapping, of taking a step forwards and placing a reassuring hand on the Winchester's arm. "I'm very impressed," he says and Dean preens under his touch.

"What d'you want me to do next, Boss?"

_Perfect._ There was a question he couldn't wait to answer.

***

Sam drives them back to the bunker, ignoring both Castiel's offers to drive and his aborted attempts to talk about what happened. It's too much to deal with right now. He just needs to put as many miles between him and that stinking motel room as humanly possible. The Impala growls as he pushes his foot down a little harder and the country zips past in bloodied streaks of green, blue and grey. His eyes itch, his muscles ache, and he's sure there are bruises blossoming across his back and shoulders.

Cas clears his throat, which makes Sam think he's about to try talking again, so he leans over and turns the stereo up a few notches.

He can feel Cas' eyes on him. Can feel the angel shuffle in his seat.

There's too much restless energy in the pair of them. Too much pain building in the empty spaces of the car. Cas is clearly not used to sitting in the front as much as the back. Sam's not used to being the one to drive for this long. Everything's just a little off its axis but it's enough to make the world feel upside-down.

Without warning, he pulls onto the hard shoulder and kills the engine. Cars go speeding past them, blaring their horns at Sam's sudden exit.

Out of his peripheral vision he can see that Cas is back looking at him, a hand splayed out on the dashboard to stop himself toppling forwards. He looks like he might be about to start talking again.

Sam forces the door open and gets out, not even quite sure what he's even doing. He stomps a few feet away from the car, kicking up little plumes of dust with savage desire.

This is so fucked. How?

_How_?

He fists his hair and tugs sharply, letting a half-shout pass his lips.

He spins back around to find Cas has got out the Impala but still hovers by her hood. Sam wonders why he's bothering to stay. Wonders why Cas doesn't just go back up to heaven and help fix up the mess Metatron left in his wake. "What happened to Gadreel?" Sam asks loudly, making sure Cas can hear him over the sound of the other cars on the highway.

Cas narrows his eyes, like he can't quite figure out what Sam's playing at. "We were help captive in heaven's prison," Cas tells him. "To ensure I had a chance to find the angel tablet to weaken Metatron, he sacrificed himself." He looks troubled at the notion. "Years spent blaming him for the fall of humanity." Cas shakes his head and continues, "Only for him to give up everything to save both your kind and mine."

Sam nods. There's no love lost there. Gadreel had invaded his body, his mind and used his hands to kill Kevin, and a whole host of angels. But beggars couldn't be choosers when it came to it. Gadreel had come through in the end, tried to make things right, and that's all anyone could really ask. "What about Metatron?"

"Incarcerated." Cas balls his hands into fists and looks like he's about to punch a dent into the Impala's hood.

Sam takes a few steps forwards, thinking that he probably doesn't stand much chance at tackling an angel but he could at least give it a go if Cas really did show signs of dinging up Baby. He winces at the thought, his own brain sounding too much like Dean and that's getting into territory he doesn't want to think about. Can't dare to think about. Instead he just asks, "Guessing that wasn't your idea?"

Cas shakes his head and says. "Maybe, I don't know anymore." It takes a long moment before Cas says, "I certainly wanted to kill him."

Sam nods. "Me too."

"He waves around an angel blade with," Cas starts and then snaps his mouth shut and doesn't carry on.

Sam's got a good idea what Cas might've been about to say, but he doesn't really want to hear it, and he's pretty sure Cas doesn't want to say it.

Instead, he scrubs at his eyes and lets rip a yawn, and that causes Cas to move towards the driver's door.

"No," Sam says rushing back towards the car. "I'm perfectly okay to drive."

Cas pins him with those eyes that say, don't be stupid. "I know," Cas tells him. "But I'm offering."

Sam kinda wants to fight him on it, because driving means he's got something to do, and having something to do means not thinking about the day he's had. Sitting quiet for too long will be a bitch.

But he clambers into the passenger side anyway, and feels a little more at home. The engine rumbles to life and then Cas is leaning over, touching his forehead and saying, "You should sleep." The whole world tips sideways and fades to black.

***

Crowley snaps his fingers and springs them up in Michigan and settles them down in a small coffee shop in the heart of Neighbor's bustling little town.

Dean's all cleaned up, and there's barely a speck of dried blood crusted under his fingernails. He looks normal, Crowley thinks, almost unsettlingly so, but Crowley had made sure Dean kept a dark shirt on just in case the chest wound decided to open back up again. Angel blades were detestable things, he'd pointed out to Dean, unless, of course, you're the one doing the stabbing.

Dean had chuckled, let the black drain out of his eyes and hadn't even asked where Crowley had spirited the First Blade away too.

Right now, Dean sits across him at the Formica covered table, eating a hearty slice of pie and guzzling a mug of run-of-the-mill coffee. Crowley sips at his own white ceramic mug and finally breaks their silence (well, as silent as you can get with Dean Winchester chowing down opposite you). "We're just waiting for an associate of mine," he says. "Now, I've heard you're not too fond of witches, but I can vouch for this fellas good name."

Dean waves about his fork with a bit of cherry pie speared on the end of it and says, "Whatever. Just hope they hurry up or I'm ordering more pie." He stuffs the piece into his mouth, starts chewing then says around the mouthful, "And you're buying."

Crowley reigns himself in before he rolls his eyes and just takes another mouthful of the watered down crap the place was trying to palm off as coffee.

A gentleman pushes open the door, a little bell tinkers above him, and Crowley breaks into a grin. Show time. "Felix!" he says loudly enough to draw the man's attention. He gets to his feet and holds his hand out to the slim black man that joins their table.

Felix is dressed impeccably, from his crisp dark grey suit, grey dress shirt and navy blue tie, right down to his snake skin shoes. Crowley chances a quick look to Dean upon site of the tie, but Dean's far too interested in his pie to give the man more than a cursory once over. A stroke of luck, he thinks.

Felix's eyes are piercing and dark, and he claps his palm to Crowley's and shakes enthusiastically. Then he looks down at Dean and his grip goes slack.

"Winchester," he breathes, and Dean cocks his head up to Felix, gives a shit-eating grin and a little sarcastic wave.

"Hi."

Crowley tightens his grip on Felix to make sure the man doesn't make a run for it and says, "Relax. He's with me."

Felix glares at him and says, "That's supposed to make me comfortable?"

Crowley indicates a spare seat and tells the man to sit. He does, but he remains on edge, and looks about ready to start throwing hexes to get himself out of the coffee shop. Sensing mutiny, Crowley touches his hand to Dean's shoulder and whispers, "Show him," and Dean turns to Felix, floods his eyes and blinks them clear once more.

It doesn't get Felix to relax quite as much as Crowley would've hoped for, but it's better than nothing. "To business," Crowley says, and Felix nods, only half looking away from a Dean that's still eating the last piece of his pie.

"Pay attention," Dean says, brandishing his empty fork. There's a thud under the table, and Felix hisses angrily. Crowley beams.

He tips his fingers at the passing waitress and she brings over another mug and a fresh pot of coffee, and tops them all up. He takes a sip of slightly hotter coffee and says, "There's a house nearby, in a fancy little cul-de-sac, warded up to the eyeballs against things like me." He pauses momentarily and adds, "And Dean."

Felix eyes Crowley sceptically. "What do you want me for?"

"Fudge it," Crowley says. "Change the warding just enough for the pair of us to get inside."

"That would require me to gain access to the property," Felix tells him, in a tone that suggests Crowley should already know this.

"Here," Crowley says, offering up a folded piece of paper. "Name and address. The property is made all the more conspicuous by how inconspicuous they want to be. But you should be able to get in. They're looking for a witch to help with some simple hex bags so they can leave the house. They've put their feelers out through the local networks. They might run you through the usual shtick; holy water, silver, maybe even Borax."

"Gotcha," Felix says. "Are there even Leviathan around any more?"

"Not many," Crowley says, "But these guys have tangled with them in the past, so they might be a little edgy.

Felix flicks open the note, reads, refolds, and tucks the piece of paper into his inside pocket. "So what's in it for me if I take this on?"

Crowley pops his mug down on the table and leans back into his chair. "Double your usual payment," he says, "and any two hard-to-come-by spell ingredients of your choosing."

Felix whistles through his neat pearly whites, takes up his own mug and sits back. He drinks a few mouthfuls, and contemplates Crowley's offer. "You got yourself a deal," Felix says finally. He drains the last of his cup and stands. He throws a note down to cover his coffee and buttons his suit jacket up. "I take it that I mention either your names on pain of death?"

"Of course," Crowley says, getting to his feet and shaking Felix's hand. "Call me once it's done."

Felix leaves and Crowley drains his coffee cup.

"So, why are we here?" Dean asks, looking around the coffee shop. "I get meeting that guy," Dean jams his thumb over his shoulder at the door Felix just left out of, "but who's warded up? Who do you want to get to?"

Crowley weighs up between telling Dean the truth, and feeding him a lie to placate him. Under any other circumstance, Crowley would risk the lie, but the problem with this particular scenario is that he needs Dean specifically. The power coursing within him is unique, largely untapped and unprecedented, and Crowley wants to test out a theory. There's a lot of rumours about Cain, after all and so far at least one of them has turned out to be true.

But Crowley knows he needs to tread carefully. More than carefully in fact.

"Kevin," Crowley brokers. "I want to talk to Kevin."

Of all the things Dean was expecting him to say, it clearly wasn't that, and he drains of all colour. "Kevin?" he asks, as if there's any way he could've misheard.

"Kevin," Crowley reiterates. And he has to move quickly because the strings are snapping around Dean much quicker than he'd anticipated. He can see a wall bricking up and the Winchester's hands shake. "They say Cain can do more than just kill."

"What?" Dean asks thickly, his head snapping up towards Crowley and just like that, the King of Hell cements his own line to Dean.

But Crowley inches forwards and says, "I know you blame yourself for the kid's death. You shouldn't, but I know you do regardless. But I can help you make it right, Dean. Just put a little faith in me, and I can help you make it right."

***

Felix places a cigarette between his teeth and lights it with his fingertips. He tugs in a lungful of tar and blows smoke rings out into his apartment.

It's neat and minimalistic, just how Felix likes it, and there's an air of expense stitched into the fabric of everything. Freelance spell work brings in a good amount of cash, and his best paying client was Crowley.

Felix taps ash to the floor, and makes it disappear into nothingness before it has the opportunity to burn a hole into his cream rug. The piece of paper Crowley had handed him lays unfolded on the open pages of a spell book.

The chicken scratch the King of Hell liked to call handwriting reads, ' _One ghost, one human. You want to talk to Linda Tran_ ," and below it, a phone number.

Double his usual packet, just to smudge up some warding? This was easy money. Don't mind if I do, your Majesty. Still, the ghost could be tricky, but this was hardly the first household with a stay-in ghost trapped within its walls these days. Felix had no idea what was causing the upswing in spirits, but it was definitely making for a good influx of cash. He'd bound a few in a certain place, and shifted some others off premises in the past three months. He'd just have to make sure he had an ace up his sleeve in case of any unexpected vengeance.

Felix punches the number into his cell and jams it between shoulder and ear.

It takes several rings until a lady answers in a clipped voice, "Sue Smith."

Felix grins. "I'm looking to get hold of a Linda Tran," he says.

"And why would that be?" the lady on the other end of the phone asks.

"Heard she's looking for a witch." Felix tugs down a bit more cigarette smoke and shuffles back into his sofa cushions, to make himself feel a bit more comfortable. He figures her silence is a good thing, because if it were a wrong number then he assumes he would've been hung up on already. Still, the silence stretches out to this side of uncomfortable, so Felix decides to press, "Might know someone that could help."

"The address will be sent to you after the call," she finally says. "You're to come alone and make sure you're not followed. You'll be required to demonstrate your abilities, nothing fancy, just proof you're what you say you are. Bring ingredients to ward against demons." She hangs up before Felix can get a word in edge ways.

Stunned, Felix looks down at his cell. It's not often things surprise him, but this woman does. He shrugs out the residual feeling and slides his phone back into his pocket. He takes a final drag of his cigarette then folds it into nothingness.

Time to get to work.

He has most things in his stores, but there's a couple things he needs to pick up fresh, and for that, Felix needs to go see a man about a cat.

***

He's not always around. Often it's a constant struggle for him to break through and when he finally does it takes a lot out of him. But even when she can't see him, he still makes a point to leave little notes scrawled over steamed mirrors or typed into his computer which she keeps switched on and open on a blank document.

Sometimes, she can tell he's building up to scaring the living daylights out of her because he goes quiet for days at a time. He'll crop up as she's making coffee or break a dinner plate. She can't find it in herself to get too mad at him though. She has a finite number of days with her son, and she doesn't want to spend them upset with him.

But they do niggle away at her. Deep in her gut she knows she should put a stop to the scares. She only doesn't because being a ghost can't be all that exciting, especially when simple tasks exhaust you, and she doesn't want to deny him one of the few simple pleasures he can get.

Still, Dean's words of 'vengeful spirit' echo in the chambers of her mind and she worries how long it'll be until her son starts exhibiting rage he can't control.

As if he can read her mind, he blinks into being on the other side of the kitchen island. "Hi mom," Kevin says, leaning down onto the counter.

She smiles at him indulgently and busies about making her lunch.

When they'd first come home, Linda had hurried around making two of every meal before she'd remembered she'd brought home a ghost.

He watches her work with interest, though there's a frown marring his brow. It's very similar to the one he would get when he received anything less than perfect in a school test. It was his frown of not wanting to disappoint her and she wishes she could do now, what she would do back then, and smooth her fingers over his skin until the frown was gone. Then she'd hold him tight and tell him that we never learn unless we fail.

She sighs and says, "You might as well tell me."

Kevin startles, blinks to invisible and back again. "What?"

"Tell me," she says sternly, waving a bread knife around.

He remains quiet for a long time and all Linda can think is, this is it. He's losing himself isn't he? And then he says, "I don't think I'm stuck here any more."

Linda's heart plummets. It's selfish of course, wanting Kevin to stay here with her forever. But she's not ready to let him go yet. This isn't how it's supposed to work. Parents aren't meant to bury their kids.

Then she remembers Kevin doesn't even have a body left for her to put in the ground.

She settles the knife down on the counter and stares at her salad sandwich, no longer hungry.  "So, you're leaving?" she asks him, though she can't quite bring herself to look up.

His hand hovers close by, almost like he wants to reach out and touch her, hug her, but they learnt early on that that's not exactly a pleasant sensation for anyone involved. He's slowly shaking his head and he gnaws on his bottom lip that's just this side of too pale.

Sometimes Linda finds she can trick herself into believing he's not dead. That if she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye then he looks solid and healthy, not washed out and pale.

"Not yet," he tells her. "I shouldn't go yet."

She glances up at him, feeling tears burning in the corners of her eyes. "You should," she tells him. "If it's what you want."

He twitches his mouth into a smile. "But it's not."

"You're determined to pester me into an early grave, aren't you?"

He grabs her shoulder quickly and she feels like she's been doused in ice. Then he's blinked away and is on the other side of the room. "Wouldn't dream of it, mom!"

He flits out of being and Linda is left with her melancholy. She tears off a crust of her sandwich, not really up to stomaching the whole thing any longer.

Kevin pops back up behind her twenty seconds later and she almost hits the ceiling when he says, "Oh wait, I forgot something."

Rubbing her chest she asks, "And what was that?"

"Love you, mom," he says through a huge smile.

"That was it?" she asks indifferently, though she hides her own grin.

"Oh shut up, I -" he pauses, looking to the front of the house. "Someone's coming."

Linda glances down at her wrist watch and says, "Shoot."

"What?" Linda doesn't answer, so Kevin tries again, "Mom, what?"

"It's okay," she says distractedly, crouching down under the kitchen sink to extract the blessed bottle of Evian. Next, she frees the bottle of cleaning fluid, and then the toolbox filled with further supplies.

"Clearly it's not," Kevin argues, waving a hand at the items now lined up on the kitchen counter. "Why are you-"

"I'm being safe," she tells him. "Now go upstairs." He crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. "Please," she adds.

He huffs, and says, "Fine. But don't think I'm not gonna chase whoever it is from here if they look like they're gonna hurt you."

All she manages is a tight smile before Kevin disappears and the doorbell rings.

Linda checks the line of salt above the door frame, squints through the spy hole to see a smartly dressed young man, and turns the door handle.

***

Felix parks his black Lotus up the road and walks the rest of the way. No need to come off as conspicuous. He carries a messenger bag filled with all the necessary ingredients he'll need to make up the anti-demon hex bags and the others that'll be used to mess with the warding.   
He looks his phone one last time, double checking the address, and makes his way up the front path. Aside from the slightly overgrown front lawn, the house looks neat and normal.

He presses the doorbell and waits several minutes for the door to open. It only opens a crack, barred from going any further by a chain. A dark eye peeks out at him and the lady says, "Hello, may I help you?"

He gives her his best, most winning, warm smile and says, "I'm Felix. I was told to meet a Linda Tran here." He knows he can be charming. Knows he has the presence to put even the most jittery people at ease.

She eyes him suspiciously. "Prove you're what you say you are," she says firmly and Felix can't help but feel a little stunned. He composes himself quickly. Making a cursory look around the neighbourhood to assess any prying eyes, he flares fire from his fingertips and whispers, " _Inmutatio_." The fire changes into a white rose and he holds it out for her inspection.

The door snaps shut, there's a scraping of a chain, and then a short Asian lady is pulling the door back open. "Come in," she says.

He ducks through the door into a neat little hallway. Opposite is a staircase, and to his right is a big vase of silk flowers. "This way," she says, once he crosses the threshold. She leads him through the living room to the left, and into the kitchen.

She takes ten minutes to run through tests. She hits him with a whole host of things: holy water, Borax, silver, iron and salt, and she takes her time with each method. Once she's done, she says, "I'm Linda."

"Charmed."

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Instead she presses forwards. "I need hex bags. I would like to be able to get out and about without attracting the attention of demons. I want to be invisible to them." She nods across to the living room, towards the large bay windows that show the cul-de-sac and the identical neighbouring houses. "I know for a fact that at least three of my neighbours have been possessed to watch my every move."

Felix baulks a little at that notion, suddenly wary as to why Crowley hadn't mentioned that. "I brought a range of ingredients," he says, lifting his messenger bag up onto the kitchen counter and trying to mask the sudden writhing in his gut. "Dependant on how strong you want the bags to be."

Without missing a beat she says, "The strongest."

Felix makes quick work of starting to mix ingredients; fresh cat vertebrae, palomino hair, fish eyes. He starts crushing live betels with a pestle and mortar and he catches sight of Linda's nose curling with each grind. "They have to be living," he tells her, "or the spell won't work as effectively." He pauses momentarily and catches her eye. "You don't have to watch if you don't want to. I can work unsupervised." Felix is getting a little concerned. Gaining access to the property has been relatively easy but getting any time alone to sort out this warding is going to be difficult as hell.

He's going to have to improvise his spell work if he wants to do what he's here for.

"I'd rather stay-" Linda starts, and then the telephone rings. She sighs and moves into the lounge to answer.

Felix takes the opportunity as the gift it is and moves quickly. He extracts both a pre-made hex bag and the small Tupperware container of cat blood and crushed fairy bones and walks around the kitchen island to the sink. He bends down at the cupboard underneath, opens the door, hides the hex bag behind a veriety of cleaning products, then unscrews the container's lid, dips his first two fingers inside and starts drawing a complicated symbol onto the cream painted wood.

It takes all of a twenty seconds then he's screwing the lid back on, getting the tub back inside his messenger bag, and starting washing his hands under the faucet, just as Linda comes back into the kitchen.

She raises her eyebrows when she catches sight of him and he dips his head in apology. "Sorry," he says. "Beetle blood can stain if you're not careful." And he turns to show off the front of his shirt which now has a large wet patch across the front.

She nods, as though she accepts the bold faced lie as truth, and Felix heads back to the pestle and mortar, his damp shirt sticking to his stomach uncomfortably. He rummages in his bag and pulls out the first hard substance he can find. It turns out to be another cat bone and he deposits it into the mortar and starts crushing roughly. He goes at it for no longer than a minute then thrusts his hand back into his bag and extracts the small bottle of holy water he carries with him everywhere.

When you work with demons, it's always best to be on the safe side, even if they are the ones paying you. He catching Linda's eye and asks, "Would you mind if I used the bathroom?" as he splashes a little holy water into the mortar. "This has to soak for about five minutes anyway."

"This way," she says, and he sends out a prayer of thanks to whoever the hell is listening when she doesn't question why he's taking his bag.

She leads him up the stairs and to the large family bathroom that's down the hall to the right. If he didn't know better, he'd wonder why she refused to let him out of her sight, but he remembers Crowley's warning that there's a ghost in the house and figures that if the King of Hell wants to tangle with the lady, she's got enough reasons to be paranoid.

He locks the door behind him and gets the Tupperware container out of his bag again. He wastes no time crouching down at the cupboard under the sink in here, and drawing the same complicated sigil onto the woodwork.

He straightens up and flushes the toilet. Then he pulls out another pre-made hex bag and hides that inside the toilet cistern whilst it fills back up with water. He heads over to the sink and washes his hands off, slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and opens the door again.

He expects Linda to be waiting for him but she's not, and Felix is awash with relief. He needs to draw out one final sigil and put another hex bag in place for the spell to work and the warding to collapse. He takes a gamble and quickly dashes down the hall in the opposite direction of the stairs.

The first door he comes to, he pokes his head around and sees a floral room with a large double bed smack in the middle. It's tidy, but very lived in, and Felix gathers this must be Linda's room and definitely not worth the risk being caught in. So he carries on up the hall and opens the next door.

The room is spacious, and the lefthand wall is lined with framed certificates that date back close to ten years, though stop abruptly in early 2012. They're all made out to ' _Kevin Tran_ ' in varying states of excessive calligraphy.

A cello is propped on a stand over to the right, the bed is made to army precision, not a single crease in the blankets, and though a blind man wouldn't notice, a thin layer of dust coats everything in the room.

The only sign it's even been touched recently is the switched on computer on top of the desk, and even then, Felix doesn't think he would've necessarily noticed it was on if he hadn't heard the tell-tale hum of a fan at work.

_Bingo_ , he thinks, and quickly dashes to the chest of drawers to hide the last hex bag in amongst the balled up socks.

He just reaches the wardrobe, opens up the door and unscrews the Tupperware of blood and fairy bones, charges up his fingers and gets to work on the last symbol. He's about halfway done when a voice asks, "What the hell are you doing?"

He startles, almost spills the rest of the blood mixture down his front, and turns around guiltily. The voice didn't belong to Linda and it turns out, it didn't belong to anyone at all.

_Fuck._

Felix puts the container on the floor and mentally smacks himself on the forehead. The ghost. He'd totally forgotten about the ghost.

His heart jackhammering in his chest, he pulls out a bundle of herbs, salt and werewolf fur from his bag, no longer caring if the blood gets everywhere, and sparks fire to his fingertips. " _Ignis spiritus invoco_ ," Felix says quickly, and the fire consumes the bundle of ingredients and turns blue.

He skims the bundle across the floor, the fire burning cold and not catching the carpet. 

He turns back to the wardrobe and dips his fingers back into the blood.

Before his fingers can make contact however, the door snaps shut and the voice is saying again, "What the hell are you doing?" They sound angrier this time, and Felix's breath frosts up in front of his face.

_Double fuck._

He glances over his shoulder and a kid stands in the centre of the room, arms crossed over his chest and pinning him with the same suspicious stare Linda had earlier. Felix's eyes flicker down to the bundle, and then back to the kid. He's trapped in one spot - for now - but Felix knows it won't last once the fire stops burning. He chances opening the door again, and this time he keeps a hand on it as he continues to work.

The kid tries to flicker out, no doubt to alert Linda to any wrong doing, but finally catches on that he's trapped. So he changes track and asks, "What the hell have you done to me?"

The wardrobe rattles under Felix's hand, and the windows start covering over with ice.

And then the kid squints, his eyes on the sigil and he goes, "You're undoing the warding."

Curious, Felix asks, "How'd you know that?"

The strings on the cello snap. "I just do," the kid replies. "Why the hell are you doing that? My mom is gonna kill you."

"Fella paid me," Felix says, figuring honesty is the best policy at a time like this. He finishes the symbol and closes the door.

The spells not quite finished. He needs to saying a short enchantment but he's stopped from speaking by the kid saying, "Who?"

"Does it matter?"

"Someone paid you to ruin the protective warding on my house," the kid says and the glass in the photo frames that house all the certificates crack. "I wanna know who."

Felix glances over to the breaking glass and wishes he'd brought better protection against ghosts.

"Fine!" he says, wiping the blood off his fingers onto his suit trousers. "A guy named Crowley."

Felix blames the cold for his sudden slow reflexes. He blames the cold for not seeing it coming. But at the mention of Crowley's name the kid's face contorts. He twists with rage and it doesn't matter that he's trapped on his exact spot. It doesn't matter that the spell should be containing any of the more powerful abilities any ghost should throw at Felix. Oh no.

Because this kid's hit pissed. He's flipped his shit. If the temperature was cold before, it's Arctic now. The glass in the room shatters. Every last pane of it. The cello goes flying past Felix and smashes to pieces against the wall.

Felix bends over and covers his face. His extremities feel like any sudden movements might have them fall off, and his breath catches painfully in his chest.

He's gotta finish this job. He's gotta get rid of the kid somehow and then he can collect that nice payment from Crowley and board a jet to somewhere hot and sunny, with scantily dressed women that give fantastic massages.

Wood and glass go flying around him and Felix thinks, fuck this. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. Twice his usual payment? Even five times wouldn't be fucking enough. _"_ _Deleo_ _tersus_ ," he manages to gasp out, his breath clawing painfully in his lungs.

He sees the sigil burn through the wood on the door and thinks, good, his job is done and he can get the hell outta dodge.

He snatches his bag, not bothering to really look around the room. But the kids voice comes loud, too loud, and it issues from the walls and echoes inside his head and he's screaming, "You're letting Crowley into my house?!"

And Felix should see it coming. Any other time he would. Any other day and he'd be able to deflect it with a spell.

But a wall of glass shards come for him, mixed with a couple of splintered pieces of cello and all he manages to say is, "Fuck," when they charge him, strike him, and he's dead before his body even hits the wardrobe.

***

Crowley checks his cell for approximately the thirteenth time in twenty minutes and then says, "He should've been done by now." They're making their way down a straight little street full of houses that all look the same. They're nearing the Tran house, and Crowley's getting more and more frantic.

He watches Dean stick his hands into his jeans pocket and shrug rather spectacularly. "Call him," he offers as a suggestion.

"Oh yes, because if the idiot's left his phone around and my name springs up on the screen, Linda will love that."

"You're paying that idiot to complete a pretty important task," Dean points out.

"Thank you for that gleaming input," Crowley spits back.

"Just saying."

Crowley stops momentarily, and scrubs his hands over his face. Someone give him patience. Anyone. Who's bright idea was it to twist a Winchester of all people into becoming a demon? A _Winchester_!

He straightens himself out and looks around them. On the other side of the road is a gleaming black Lotus. It looks out of place amongst the people carriers and the soccer mom hatchbacks, and more importantly, it looks familiar. "That's his car," Crowley tells Dean, nodding at the sports car.

Dean snorts in derision and says, "Course it is."

Crowley smirks. What do you know? Car snob is something of Dean Winchester that transferred over into demon. 

They carry on up the street, reaching the mouth of the cul-de-sac and Dean nods to the far end, to the house with the overgrown lawn and says, "That's the one alright."  
He can sense his minions close by. There's five of them, dotted throughout the neighbourhood. There had been more, twice as many in fact, but Abaddon had persuaded enough of them to abandon their posts and wreck havoc. They were strung up on the rack now. Maybe if Dean's up to it later, he'll let him have a little fun.

Crowley scans the property and can no longer sense any warding. Good sign that, but the lack of Felix, not so much. He turns to Dean and claps him on the shoulder. "Show time."

***

She knows something is wrong the second the tap in the kitchen frosts over. Aside from the fact that the witch took what was perhaps the longest time in the bathroom known to man, Linda had been fairly confident this had been going well. Of course, she should've known better than to trust another witch.

She decides it's about time to chase the man up and heads to the entrance hall, only to hear splintering wood as she reaches the stairs. Her heart rate quickens to this side of frantic. _Kevin_.

She sprints up the stairs, past the open bathroom door and down the hall for Kevin's room, not caring at how cold it's suddenly got.

She reaches for the door handle and flinches back from the frosty touch and then she hears her son, his voice echoing monstrously, "You're letting Crowley into my house?!"

Linda's sure she's died. That her heart has given up trying to beat and the world has come to an end. Somehow - she's not sure how she manages - she gets the door open. The next time she looks there are angry red marks seared across her palm almost like she's held her hand over open flame.

The room's in carnage. Shards of glass spray from one side, shatter a little more and then fly back in the opposite direction, each time getting finer. The witch lays sprawled at the foot of the wardrobe in a pool of blood, impaled with pieces of splintered wood and large shards of glass. Linda looks from the body and over to her son, who doesn't move from the spot but flickers between here and not quite, his face twisted in rage, his eyes popping from his head.

When he sees her, it's like he doesn't recognise her and he screams, "Get out!" She can't find her feet, can't find it in her to move, and that's when the wall of ice cold wind strikes her square in the chest and she goes flying down the hallway. The computer chair goes sailing over her head and skids in through the open bathroom door and shatters the shower screen. "Kevin!" she shouts, but his door slams shut and ices over.

She hears the front door slam open - someone's kicked it down - and she wonders if the neighbours can hear the commotion and are coming to investigate. She hopes not. How will she explain that her long missing son is in his bedroom, is a ghost, and is tearing the place apart?

"Mrs Tran?" a gruff voice is shouting and she turns, still half on the floor, to see Dean Winchester scaling the stairs two at a time, a gun in his hand and a worried expression on his face.

She wonders how he's here, wonders why on earth the Winchesters decided they'd drop by right at the perfect moment, but she doesn't care. Maybe they're on the tail of Crowley. Maybe they heard he was trying to get to them and they're here to stop that from happening.

He rushes to her side and places a gentle hand on her arm. "Can you get up?" he asks, all concern and softness. She nods, and he gets a hand under her elbow and heaves her to her feet. "You hurt?" he asks, and she shakes her head. She's not sure what it is, but it's like her voice has just given up, has just left her body.

He frowns at the frosted door and then he asks, "Kevin?"

When she nods, she expects him to say _we warned you_ , _we told you this would happen_. Instead he nods to the stairs and says, "Get in the lounge. Ring of salt around you." He gives her a little push in the small of her back and he adds, "Quickly."

She starts moving, her feet scrambling over one another. She pauses at the top of the stairs and affords herself one last glance back at Kevin's bedroom door. Dean has his gun raised and he shoots at the door handle, once, twice, three times and is kicking down the door and Linda decides she doesn't want to watch this, and flees.

***

He's never felt anything like it. The rage boils through him, hot and powerful and it's like he's been reborn, like he can see the energy shooting off every tiny particle in the room. And all he can think is _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley_.

The door is kicked open again and he wishes his mom would just leave. Go already. Didn't you hear? Crowley is coming. Get out of the house. Get out get out get out get out get out get out -

Dean stands silhouetted in the door frame, his gun raised and something dark bubbling underneath his skin. Kevin can't quite get a read on it, can't quite pinpoint what's off about Dean, but he guesses it's just another _Dean_ problem, another shitfest the older Winchester had gotten himself into this time and was striking up a pity party about.

And then he remembers it was Dean that had got him killed in the first place, Dean that had persuaded him to stay in the God damned bunker because they were _family_ whilst his _real_ family rotted away in a storage facility, chained up by _Crowley_. The anger flares through him again. _Dean_ that had driven him from dumb ass motel after dumb ass motel to stop him from cramping their style when their friends showed up. Not really family, not at all, only _family_ when it suits them, only _family_ when he's useful.

Dean that had kicked Cas out. Dean that had gotten Sam possessed. _Possessed!_ Dean that didn't even give a shit about his own real family. Dean that had hauled Kevin into the shit over this angel business. Dean that had just stood and done nothing whilst an angel smote the crap outta him.

All Dean. Everything was all his fault.

Screw him. Screw him to Hell -

Kevin doesn't even register that Dean's moving into the room, getting struck by glass dust and not even flinching. And it's only once he pays attention that he notices those stupid herbs have stopped burning and he can move again.

And it's only then that he notices that it's not just something dark, like self-pity flowing through Dean's system. It's something dark that's consumed him.

Kevin's shocked out of his rage and he says, "You're possessed."

Dean's face twists into a menacing grin and Kevin's sure if he was still alive he's be able to smell the sulphur pouring from him. "Not quite," Dean says, and his eyes are flooded black.

The anger gives way to panic, blind complete panic and Kevin's speeding from the room, chasing past Dean and screaming, "Mom! Mom get out of the house!"

He blinks through the floor, charges into the living room only to be hauled up short by a wall of salt.

And his mom's right there, right in the centre of the room, huge bag of salt in her hands, and Crowley about three feet away from her. He turns and says, "Hello Kevin."

At the sight of him, Kevin sees red again, and that visceral rage explodes from him. The telly blows, glasses on the kitchen counter pop, the doors to the cabinet of china plates his mom had been collecting since before she married his dad fly open and they start spinning out into the room.

His rage won't be contained. Not until he's killed Crowley.

Kevin struggles against the line of salt and kicks up a violent wind, trying to blow it in so he can cross, so he can wrap his bare hands around Crowley's neck and throttle him.

It's only when Dean pops up behind him, appearing from thin air and says, "Could you get that for me?" and nods down at the white line that he stops. Because whilst the salt is keeping Kevin out of the living room, thus away from Crowley, it's also stopping Dean from getting to his mom too.

But his rage is too keen, it's taken on a life of its own and he can't be stopped. He's about thirty seconds from blowing in the bay windows when Crowley asks, "Calm him down, would you?" and Dean reaches out and grabs hold of him.

His hand tightens around Kevin's spirit, doesn't just pass straight through like his mom's would've, and he pulls him closer a couple of inches. "Sorry Kev," he says, and there's a glimmer in his eyes like he might actually mean it.

The rage pours out of him, draws away like the sea chasing out to swell up for the start of a tsunami, and then he's on fire. It starts where Dean touches him, burns right through the core of him.

And he can hear his mother screaming, can feel the flames searing around his eye sockets like they had done when Gadreel had killed him.

Then he feels blood washing over him, feels the grind of bones breaking, mending, remaking, feels muscles stitch their tendons to sockets, feels air rush into expanding lungs, can taste it on his tongue that's catching against teeth that are pushing from his skull...

And it hurts, it hurts so much. It hurts everywhere.

And then he's whole, all shiny and new but with all those oddly intricate old scars still littering his skin, and wearing the same clothes his corpse was salted and burnt in.

His knees hit the floor and his heartbeat is drumming violently against his ribs and holy shit, holy shit -

He's alive.

***

Linda can't believe her eyes. This can't be real. It can't be. She had just come to terms... "Kevin?" she asks, the bag of salt she'd clutched like a lifeline tumbling out of her hands and spilling all over the floor. "Kevin?"

He's fallen through the line of salt and he scuffs it further as he struggles to get upright. He keeps looking at his hands, his arms, touching his chest and his neck, like he can't quite believe himself. If Linda had full capacity of her motor function right now, she's sure she'd be doing the same.

Kevin's chest heaves rapidly, his breath is loud and harsh to her ears that have grown so uses to silence in his presence.

He looks up at her, his face flushed, his dark eyes wide, and he croaks, "Mom?" He sounds so scared, so fragile and so precious, and she throws caution to the wind. She doesn't care that Crowley's only a handful of feet away and that Dean Winchester can apparently raise the dead, all she cares about is holding her baby, and she scrambles over her salt ring and crawls towards him.

She scoops him up and clutches him tightly. She presses kisses to the top of his head, runs her fingers through his thick hair that's so soft to her touch and he's real.

He's solid and warm and she can feel his breaths puffing against her neck, can feel his heart beating strong and erratic under her touch and she cries and holds him tighter. "My boy," she whispers into his hairline, and kisses him a few more times for good measure.

Real.

"As touching as this reunion is, I'm afraid you've got your hands on something I want, Mrs Tran," Crowley says, and it's like ice slipping down her spine, colder than anything Kevin's ghost was able to conjure up.

"No." She hisses the word out through her teeth and she holds Kevin to her even tighter. "You've taken enough from me already." Kevin is shaking in her arms and his skin feels clammy.

"Touching, really," Crowley says. "But your words are ultimately futile Mrs Tran." He snaps his fingers and she goes skidding across the room, pinned to the wall. "Did you really think I'd resurrect a prophet out of the goodness of my heart?" He bends down and places a hand on Kevin's shoulder. Kevin doesn't even flinch, doesn't even try and move away. She wills her son to fight back, but he seems stunned beyond rational reaction. "Because it might surprise you to learn I don't have one." He looks over to the entrance hall, where Dean still stands watching the whole scene unfold with narrowed eyes. "You did good," Crowley tells the Winchester. "Clean up here, and meet me later?"

And before Linda can fight it, before Dean can even respond to the demon's demands, Crowley disappears into thin air, whisking Kevin away with him.

The force keeping her pinned disappears and she slumps forwards. It's only then that Crowley's words slide into place in her head: _Clean up here._

She looks over at Dean and it doesn't really surprise her to see his eyes blown black. He leans heavily against the wall, looking like he might fall over if he makes a single movement. He takes a few deep breaths and then steps over the broken line of salt. His dark eyes are lowered to the ground. His gun is still in his hand.

Linda could fight. She could throw herself at the sink and grab up the holy water. She could kick the salt up and catch him in the face. And she should, she knows she should. Because who else is going to fight for Kevin?

If Dean is a demon and working for Crowley, then where the hell is Sam? Is he dead? It's all on Linda. Kevin is her son, her responsibility and she'll tear through hell to get to him.

But her heart hurts, it burns in her chest and there's barely anything left in her. There's no fight, no desire to move from the floor.

He was dead, he was beyond being hurt by Crowley any longer. The warding had been to protect her. It had only meant to protect her.

She feels the cold press of steel against her scalp. She's crying; snivelling and pathetic. Months spent rotting in a cell, kept from her boy only to escape and learn his dead. Only to wind up here, in the living room of their home with a bullet through her brain.

Ironic really, that it should be put there by one of the only people in the world she thought she could trust.

It takes a long time for Linda to realise the gun isn't going off. She tilts her head up, the barrel scraping through her hair until she's looking into Dean's eyes. Contempt flushes through her. "Do it," she spits. Nothing. "Just do it already!"

His hand shakes.

An eternity stretches by within seconds and then he's croaking, "Run."Linda can't quite believe her ears. "Get away from me," Dean moans. And if his gun hand was shaking before, it's like an earthquake is tearing through him now.

When she doesn't move he hurls the pistol across the living room and bellows in her face, " _RUN!_ "

Linda scrambles to her feet, trips over, and hurries out the door.

***

Sam tilts back in his chair and rubs his hands over his face. How is it possible for him to feel this tired? He slept for at least ten hours in the car thanks to Cas. Then again, the last few days have been exhausting as all hell.

Mrs Tran nurses her third mug of hot chocolate and finally says, "I found a black sports car just up the road, and it was unlocked." She takes another mouthful of drink. "I thought my hot wiring days were over."

Any other time, Sam probably would've made a comment about that, but he doesn't think now's the time really.

Cas clears his throat and Sam says, "What you thinking?"

"Dean is apparently much more powerful than we thought." In spite of his calm tone, Cas definitely looks troubled.

Mrs Tran nods aggressively. "He remade him. From nothing. One minute Kevin was a ghost and the next he was solid and breathing." She still looks hollow and stunned at the thought.

Sam brings the front legs of his chair back down to the floor and looks between Cas and Mrs Tran. Fine. "If no one else is going to say it then I will," he says. "What the hell could Crowley want with Kevin alive, that he couldn't do dead?"

Cas and Mrs Tran remain quiet. Their silence is all Sam needs for answer. They're just as stumped as he is.


	3. All In The Name Of Being Holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels fell out of the sky and all Claire Novak could do was watch. Now it's a year later and Sam and Cas have a pile of dead bodies to investigate, all the while trying to hunt down Dean. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this is a day late but I just couldn't get the chapter finished on time. It was mammoth and it took a lot out of me. I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but it's finally done and I hope you enjoy it.

  
_Three months ago_   


His human skin was a rank thing, little more than puss and bile, stitched together with blood and yellow fat. He had hoped for better, but when you're plummeting faster than light with your wings burning out of your Grace, you don't get much chance to be picky about what'll let you in. Whoever the man had been, Eremiel had burnt him out quickly and had learnt the man was fairly wealthy. Which, all things considered, eased the sight of him considerably. 

Not that any vessel was perfect. Eremiel's vessel line had died out centuries ago, the Lord had seen to that, and any other taken was a poor substitute.

He had made contact with the rebel angel Malachi, who had expressed interest in Eremiel's skill set, and had offered up a place upon his army if Eremiel bent a knee and swore loyalty. There were few things Eremiel liked less than swearing loyalty, and he liked even less when he was backed into a corner to do it. But he was fast running out of other options. There were rumours that the once great Castiel had joined the ranks of Bartholomew's army and if Malachi was bad, Bartholomew's self-righteousness was worse.

The night is dark and balmy, summer's heat slowly giving way to autumn, and leaves are just threatening to drop from their branches. Eremiel leans against the porch of his vessel's fancy town house. As much as he despises his vessel, and humanity as a collective, this comfortable house was a vast improvement to the cell he'd been locked up in in Heaven.

He tips his head towards the sky and contemplates brewing up a storm. His wings may have been burnt from his back, one final humiliation from a wrathful God apparently, but that doesn't stop all his powers. 

And Eremiel was always good at twisting the weather.

He starts swirling a finger through the air, and slowly - oh so slowly - the sky starts to swirl through with heavy clouds. He smirks, feels the moisture cling in every particle in the air, feels the friction building headily waiting to spark and fracture lightning towards the ground. He puffs a deep breath from his vessel's lungs and the wind builds up around him.

Storms were fun but the carnage was never quite enough in Eremiel's eyes. 

He popped a knuckle and the first rumble of thunder sounded overhead and a sheet of lightning lit up the sky. 

He was just building; designing a masterpiece like an architect. One stage atop the next. Build and build until the rooftops were torn off and the houses were ripped up from their foundations.

He feels the loss of power instantly, like someone just pulled the plug on him. He glances over his shoulder, towards the town house. Nothing. He looks around the darkened yard but can't see as far as normal.

The hell?

He hadn't felt anything approaching. Not an angel, not a demon, not anything with any power at all. But _something_ had very clearly gotten close enough and thrown up a sigil.

He scratches at his neck and drops his angel blade down his sleeve. Not quite the carnage he had had in mind for the night but Eremiel's not too fussed. Blood spray's a nice substitute for a hurricane. 

He rounds the corner of the property and hears a girl crying. She's a snivelling red headed thing, that would be beautiful if only she didn't twist her maw up and howl like a wounded cat. She's not an angel, he can tell that much, she's just an ugly human, so he slips his blade into the belt of his vessel's slacks and takes a step towards the sobbing creature. 

Eremiel knows that an older human man is expected to care, to show compassion, and though he can think of little worse, he tries what he hopes is an inviting, "Are you okay?"

She looks up at him, blotchy red patches all over her face, tears filling her bright blue eyes and she spits, "What do you think?"

Eremiel sighs and quickly loses his patience. She's nothing more than a distraction, something to bring his guard down before an ambush and he doesn't like that. But no problem.

He quickly draws his blade again and advances on the child that's gone back to crying into her hands.

It's then that the glass strikes him, shatters and he has a split second to register that his arm was now soaked through with some pungent liquid, and then he's catching fire.

He tries to swot it out, but that just causes the flames to spread to his other arm.

He shrieks, knowing now that he's been caught with holy oil and that he doesn't have long until the flames eat through his vessel's skin and reach his Grace. And once that happens, it's game over.

He lunges forwards, towards the crying girl, only to find she's disappeared and he turns like a madman, and tries to will the clouds above to rain.

"It's no use, Eremiel," says a hardened female voice. "Accept your fate."

He turns towards the voice, trying to seek out his murderer, and they land on a young woman, with dark hair and darker skin. Beside her is the red head, no longer crying, no longer whimpering, but smiling with giddy joy. "Who are you?" he manages to ask, as his knees hit the soft earth and his torso flames to stinking rotten flesh.

"Do you not recognise me brother?" She smirks. "I told you I'd hunt you down if you ever tried to escape."

It clicks then, who she is. He sees her, _truly_ sees her, through the haze of heat caused by the flames. Her Grace is barely holding together, looks like a little more fades out of it with every second she stands there. "I was hardly trying!" he spits. "Heaven ripped open and we all fell out, or didn't you get the memo?"

"I did," she says. "But I still think you should've tried a little harder to cling to your bars." She kneels down, an angel blade in her hands and she drives it into his core; one a final act of mercy, delivered to the unmerciful.

 

***

 

  
_One Year Ago_   


The night's sticky as all hell, and Claire hangs half out her bedroom window, trying to draw anything close to cool air towards her. The window frame digs into her soft belly, and her long blond hair hangs limply over her face. The base of her scalp is wet with sweat, her hair clings to the back of her neck, and she wishes she'd listened to her best friend Catelyn's advice and hacked the whole lot off into a pixie cut.

It's close to midnight and she should get back into bed sometime soon. School's gonna be a joy in the morning if she doesn't get any sleep and she's just pushing herself back inside when the whole sky lights up.

It looks just like lightning, but it lasts too long. It bleeds through clouds and Claire frowns because just a second ago there weren't any clouds in the sky at all.

And then they start falling. Their shape is uncannily human, but she can see wings, giant extensive wings burning up as they fall.

Her heart stops.

_Angels_.

She has half a mind to call for her mom, to wake her and tell her what's going on. The other half of her wants to run outside and offer herself up, to feel whole once more.

Instead she watches as one slams through the forest of trees half a mile from her home. A ripple rushes through the surrounding air. Claire can feel it sear through her chest and she's overwhelmed by the sudden _need_ to get out there, to hunt down the creature of Heaven; to help, to hurt.

And just like that, birds go rocketing skywards. The temperature drops ten degrees within two seconds and then it starts to rain from the empty sky.

The way she sees it, she has two choices. One, stay here and remain the good daughter. Don't go out and walk away from mom, chasing angels like dad did. Act like she didn't see anything. Act like it doesn't bother her. Pretend that she believes the news broadcasts in the morning that tell of meteor showers.

Two, leave. Grab the bag in her bedside cabinet filled with talismans and spare clothes, holy water and a toothbrush, a bible and a handgun, pull on her hiking boots and head off to the woods. Hunt down her birth right and demand answers to questions that've been scratched onto the inside of her skull for the past half a decade.

She shivers against the sudden temperature drop, fights it, and leans back out her window again. The lights in the sky have stopped, the angels have stopped falling and Claire realises that it was never really much of a choice to begin with.

She quickly drags on yesterday's jeans, drags her band tee over her head and pulls on her hiking boots whilst scribbling out a note for her mom.

She was always her father's daughter. Always.

***

_Present Day_

Sam gets back from his early run and throws a newspaper down in front of Cas' vast documentation of omens, possessions and unexplained murders. "Morning," Sam says, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle and downing half the bottle in only two mouthfuls. Cas nods at him, scanning a pretty complicated page full of numbers and apparently making something of it.

They'd fallen into something of a routine now they'd gotten over their initial shock and it was comfortable, companionable, and Sam kinda liked it. He figures this would've been what life would've been like if Gadreel hadn't forced Cas out of the bunker and Dean hadn't been so emotionally stunted that he'd managed to tell Cas that he actually kinda liked having him around when dick angels weren't threatening to kill his little brother.

Sam sits down in one of the many free chairs beside Cas and nudges his knee with his toe. Cas finally looks up from his document of numbers and throws Sam a highly annoyed stare. Instead of offering an apology, Sam tells him, "You should look at the front page. Might interest you." 

Cas takes his time placing down the numbers, and picking up the newspaper. He gives it half a glance as though he doubts it'll do anything of the sort unless it has anything to do with the hunt for Dean, and then he double takes.

"Holy oil?" Cas asks, waving his hand at the headline: _Investigators baffled by Israeli oil used in bizarre murder of entrepreneur, 52._

Sam nods and says, "Reckon someone's killing angels again."

Cas frowns at the newspaper. "You think we should abandon the search for Dean and follow this up?"

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and drains his bottle of water. Dean. Sam has a sneaking suspicion that Cas hasn't moved from his seat for the past week. Doubts he's even laid his head down. There's a collection of half-drunk, stone cold mugs of coffee that Sam had been bringing him but that're now buried under piles of paper. 

He wants to be blunt. Wants to tell Cas that there's probably not much point. He knows Dean well enough to know that if he doesn't want to be found, then he won't be. Especially not when Dean's threatening to kill them if they get close. He wants to tell him that there's a good chance he's not even on earth, that he might be lording it up around Hell. But he can't quite bring himself to do it. Because if that is the case, if Dean is in hell, Sam shudders to think what he's getting up to. He half glances to Cas and he knows. He knows that Cas is worried about that. Not like Cas hasn't seen that carnage first hand before, right? He knows exactly what kind of demon Dean makes.

"How far have you got?" he goes for instead.

Cas throws the paper down on top of the numbers and scrubs his hands over his face. "A couple of disappearances," he starts with, "and various dead bodies. All dotted around the country. Those that have been tortured before their deaths are in a similar state to Lebanon's very own Mr Williams. I believe the FBI think they have a serial killer on their hands."

"If only they knew," Sam says. "Are all those tortured guilty of anything? Or were they deals Dean was calling in?"

"Both, I think," Cas says, "but his victim choice is starting to get a little more erratic and it's getting harder to establish a motive."

Sam thinks that should come as a surprise. It doesn't. 

"But there's no pattern. No rhyme or reason to where he's cropping up next." Cas looks back down to the newspaper and adds, "How long do you reckon it'll take to get there?"

***

_ One Year Ago _

Claire picks her way through the outer ring of trees, holding her flash light aloft. There's a path carved through the undergrowth, all flattened leaves and dusty earth, and Claire follows it for as long as she thinks she can. 

Her flash light doesn't do much, doesn't stretch very far, and Claire feels swallowed by shadows. She pushes in deeper, the trees growing a little closer together, until the path veers left and Claire knows she should probably be heading right if she wants to find the angel. 

She crouches down and tugs at the laces on her hiking boots, a way of putting off the inevitable for just a few seconds longer, then she straightens up, takes a deep breath and carries on. 

For the first five or ten minutes, it's not too bad. Sure it's overgrown, and the occasional bush catches at her clothes, but she figures this is what to expect. It's only when she walks through a giant spiders web and, in her panic, tumbles into a thicket of thorns and twisted branches, that she realises just how freaked out she is. Her heart is in her throat, beating rapidly, pumping adrenalin through every last inch of her. She's got blood pouring out of her right arm and hand, from where she cut herself on the thorns, and she knows that's not the only place it's trickling from either.

She leans against a thick tree trunk and swallows down air. Breathe Claire, she thinks, and it's her father's voice echoing in her head. She finds her resolve, picks off the cobweb and checks the cuts on her arm. Not that bad. Could definitely be worse.

She scans the flash light around the trees, it's light not getting very far. Spiders, check. Giant trees, check. Nearing absolute darkness, check. She's half convinced she's about to walk into a nest of Acromantula and call herself Harry Potter.

She laughs, and tries to find her bearings. She doesn't know why, but she knows that when she pushes away from the tree trunk and takes a hard left, that she's going in the correct direction.

A strange sense of calm has taken her over, and it doesn't even crack when the flash light starts to sputter and give out for seconds at a time. She just keeps walking forwards.

Maybe it's the charge in the air that makes it feel like there's a storm is brewing under her skin, maybe it's the odd, ethereal glow the darkness suddenly takes on, or maybe it's the way all the insects and animals are falling quiet, like their hushing one another up so they can get a better look at something, but Claire knows she's close.

Her flash light finally gives up the ghost but it doesn't matter.

Trees have caved in and fallen, giant splinters of trunk twisting their fingers to the air like mangled claws. A great swath of moonlight filters through the darkness, lighting up the dust that still floats and swirls through the air from where it was thrown up on impact.

Claire approaches with caution, and wonders if she shouldn't just run away screaming. But she doesn't. She presses forwards and says, "Hello?"

There's no answer, so Claire hoists herself over a fallen tree trunk and shimmies down over the other side. "Hello?" she tries again, but this time the word doesn't come out in English. Her voice rasps throatily, and catches over staccato syllables. She can't quite tell how she made the switch to Enochian, but she figures it's the close proximity to another angel.

There's a stirring a few feet away in the smoking, shallow crater and Claire knows what she'll find when she looks into it.

"Sister?" a voice asks in English.

Claire freezes a foot away from the crater and almost forgets to breathe. She's not sure how to answer, so instead she closes the gap, falls to her knees beside the crater and looks in.

The angel already has a vessel, though she's battered, broken and bloody. She looks up at Claire, her dark eyes wide and she says, "You're human."

"And you're not," Claire replies. She can't tell why the angel's so surprised by her assessment. Nothing human could've fallen out of the sky that fast and not be a pancake.

The angel frowns at her and asks, "Why aren't you afraid?" She's unable to move. Her legs and arms are all broken in various places, and bone protrudes from skin. She's a state, a complete mess and from this angel and the way the angel's barely holding herself up, she guesses her pelvis is probably shattered too.

"Not my first time meeting an angel," Claire says with a shrug of her shoulders. "How comes you all fall?"

"All?"

"Whole sky cracked open. Lit up like a Christmas tree," Claire says. "Looked like the best meteor shower the planet's ever had."

The angel tries to move at this, but can't. So Claire drops her backpack to the ground and climbs down into the crater.

"What are you doing? Stay away from me."

"I get it. Big and scary, powerful angel that can kill me with a thought," Claire says. "I don't care whether or not I die." The angel baulks at Claire's nonchalant tone. "I'm offering myself up as a vessel."

The angel looks horrified at the suggestion. "Absolutely not."

"But the one you're in now is all broken," Claire argues.

As if to prove to Claire how wrong she is, the angel's left arm snaps back correctly, the skin healing over. "Once the rest of my limbs are healed, I'll be just fine, thank you."

"But I was born to be a vessel," Claire protests. She crouches down beside the angel, and her fingers hover beside the angel's broken right hand as though fighting with herself whether or not to touch her. "Please. Please just take me."

The angel's eye narrow. "How do you know that?"

"Because it's my bloodline. Because an angel came and he took my dad," Claire says. "He came to me for a bit, his light filled me up and I felt _whole_. And then my dad was hurt by demons and he was dying, so the other angel stole his body back. And then like three years later, it was all over the news. People were claiming they'd seen God or some shit and it was _him_. My mom tried to hide it from me, but I saw it all anyway. But more than that, I just _knew_."

The angel's right arm twists and snaps back into place as well and she pushes herself up a bit higher. "You were an angel's vessel?"

Claire nods.

"Whose?" the angel asks. "I assume you remember the name?"

Claire nods again, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears. "Castiel." She speaks the name reverently, utters it like it's a precious thing she needs to keep safe from the world. She's long given up praying to him. She no longer prays and begs for him to come back because all she gets in return is silence. He's never coming back.

The angel's mouth drops open. "Castiel? Are you sure?"

"There's no way I could forget." Claire closes her eyes and tries not to think about the void left gaping inside her after he had left.

The angel's legs pop and heal and she finally moves out of her awkward, propped position. She reaches out and cups Claire's face in her hands. "I will not burden you with my cumbersome Grace. You were born a warrior's vessel and not for me."

A tear slips down Claire's cheek. " _Please_ ," she whispers brokenly. " _Please_." Now she's admitted it, now she's finally spoken the words out loud, they can't be taken back. The hollowness that had been haunting her for five years feels like it's finally about to win.

"If you are willing, help me find him," the angel proposes. "There are many things I wish to discuss with Castiel, and if you believe him to still be alive-"

"He is," Claire says, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"If he's alive, then we will find him. I'll help you." The angel stands, and pulls Claire up with her. She's about a foot taller than Claire and she looks down on the blonde with softness in her eyes. "The journey will be arduous, and I am not at full capacity thanks to the fall. There's a very good chance you'll not come home again."

"I don't care, I'll go anywhere."

The angel reaches forwards and presses two fingers to Claire's forehead. A wash of warmth floods through her and Claire feels her cuts and scrapes heal. "Tell me your name," the angel says.

"Claire. Claire Novak."

The angel smiles. "Hello Claire, my name is Sariel." She holds her hand out and says, "I believe when bonds of friendship are formed, the customary thing for humans to do is to shake?" She tilts her head to the side like a curious bird.

Claire grins, her face still damp with tears, and takes hold of Sariel's outstretched hand. "Yes," Claire says. "It is."

***

_Present Day_

It takes five hours for them to reach Pauls Valley, Oklahoma, the sight of one of the largest meteor landing strikes as of last year. Cas' interests and piqued immediately and though they're there to investigate the murdered angel, Sam agrees to try and learn as much as possible about the fallen angel as well.

When they reach the morgue, they flash their badges in unison to the twenty-something on the front desk who's got the phone trapped between ear and shoulder and only gives them a cursory glance. She nods them through to the back, covering over the receiver to say, "Just head on out the back fellas. Doctor Carter'll get you sorted," and then she's back chatting away down the phone.

Doctor Carter, it transpires, is a haggard old man nearing retirement, with wispy white hair and pale blue eyes and a rotund belly. "I've never seen anything like it, Agents," he tells them as he hands over shoe covers, aprons and latex gloves. "We get the occasional murder out here and  too many hit and run victims for my liking. Hell, last week I had to do an autopsy on a guy that'd got struck by freak lightning." He pushes through a swinging door with his back and leads them over to the coolers. "She was still smoking when the paramedics found her, and her internal organs were still hot when I came to doing the autopsy." He cracks open a middle cooler and drags the body covered over in a white sheet. He pulls it back to reveal a heavily burnt female body. "Weirdest thing is I placed her time of death at eight to ten hours beforehand."

Sam nods sagely and asks, "So was she alive when she uh, caught alight?"

"Almost definitely," Doctor Carter says. "Lungs showed signs of smoke inhalation."

"Was it the fire that killed her?" Cas asks, bending over to examine the woman's face. Sam's pointedly reminded of Cas leaning over a vic with an exploded heart and Dean ordering the angel to stop smelling the dead guy.

"No," the Doctor says. "I agreed with the local sheriff's department that it was best to keep that from the press. I'm surprised they didn't pass the information along to you though." Sam clears his throat but the Doctor carries on, "Never mind. Probably feeling threatened about Federal assistance?"

Sam forces a grin and says, "Something like that."

"What did you determine killed her?" Cas prompts, straightening up and throwing a rather worried look over to Sam.

"This," Doctor Carter says, and points to the middle of her chest. "Stab wound. Approximately an inch in diameter. Wound is an interesting shape. Rounded and tapered. My best guess is that it's at least seven inches in length, if not longer."

Sam and Cas exchange identical glances and the Doctor says, "What? Heard of a weapon like that before."

"Unfortunately," Cas says, and Sam nods in agreement.

"Thanks for all your help, Doc," Sam says.

***

It takes twenty minutes for them to get copies of the autopsy reports for not only the deep fried angel, but of the meteor victim as well, and then get to the nearest motel. Cas checks them in and Sam hoists their duffel bags from the trunk of the Impala and carries them to the room Cas indicates. Sam throws the bags down on to the nearest bed, then hauls his laptop over to the small kitchen table and switches it on.

Cas frees two beers from the six pack Sam had brought inside and twists the lids off the pair of them. He puts one down beside Sam, who looks up at Cas like he's forgotten how to human.

With a small smile at the youngest Winchester's expense, Cas drops down into the rickety wooden chair opposite Sam, and pulls the first autopsy reports forwards. "If an angel fell here," he says, "they could be responsible."

Sam looks over the top of his laptop, his fingers poised over the keyboard and replies, "Or they could be the most recent victim? She was an angel, right?"

Cas nods, looking through the report on the burnt female they'd seen that afternoon. "Definitely. I recognised her, and the vessel, but couldn't tell you her name, not without seeing her faces, and those were burnt out with the rest of her Grace."

Sam looks at him curiously, before going back to his laptop and making an annoying amount of noise with the keys. Cas gives up looking at the dead, burnt angel, and pulls forwards the other autopsy report. He scans the first picture, pulls it from the paperclip bundle at the top of the file and holds it up to the window, to get some light behind it. He can see the halo burnt away upon impact behind the man's head, can see the bones of wings, shredded and half what they might once have been just extending out the top of his shoulder blades.

Sam's voice brings him back from wherever it was he'd gone to. "What?" the Winchester asks. "You see something?"

"Ezekiel," he says. "This was truly Ezekiel."

"Ezekiel-Ezekiel? Who Gadreel-pretended-to-be-Ezekiel?"

Cas nods. "I'm afraid so, yes."

Sam flops back in his chair and says, "Well then, the lady's definitely a different angel."

They fall back to silence, and Cas continues to scan the report for Ezekiel's cause of death. His internal organs were liquefied, and there was massive impact damage to the vessel's bone structure. His limbs had blown clean off and the M.E. hadn't been able to tell which of the injuries had been the cause of death.

"Huh," Sam says, and then before Cas can even look up, he ploughs on with, "so get this, this isn't the first burnt-alive-but-stabbed-to-death case. They've been dotted about. Cropping up about once a month for the past year. No witnesses, no apparent link in the victims. They're indiscriminate in who they're killing."

"But they're killing angels." Cas feels cold.

"Feds won't know that. They think they've got a serial killer on the lose that... oh." He trails off, staring at the laptop screen.

"That what?" Cas prompts.

Sam turns his laptop around to show a symbol spray painted onto the side of a fancy town house. "That's to weaken angels, right?" Sam asks him and Cas nods. "Picture hasn't been released to the public, has been scrubbed off before the press can catch a glimpse, but it's been at every crime scene." Sam twists the laptop back round and carries on clicking and scrolling.

"Someone is weakening angels and then lighting them with holy oil."

"hey," Sam says. "You know what this means?" He spins the laptop around once more, showing off a collection of photographs of burnt grass. Cas leans across the table and tabs down through them all. "Holy retribution," Cas says. "Someone is serving vengeance for a criminal act of an angel."

Sam frowns over the laptop at him. "Feel like checking out one of the others?" Sam asks. "There was one three months ago, about eight hours from here."

Cas drains his bottle of beer and closes up the autopsy report in front of him. "Yes," he says, "I think we should.

***

"What do you mean you can't find him?" Crowley circles around demon minion number three and places a firm hand on his shoulder. "Need I remind you just how important this endeavour is?"

"Sir-" Crowley coughs loudly and the demon shakes under his hand. "Your Majesty-"

"Better."

"Your Majesty, any time someone gets close they go off the grid."

"It's not my fault you're all too scared to make contact with your new Knight."

"That's not what I mean." The demon is shaking so much now, Crowley's not entirely sure how he's still being held together.

"Then enlighten me."

"Sir - Your Majesty - any time we get close to tracking him down, he turns the tables. He hunts us."

"He's hunting demons?" Crowley asks, and for the first time, he's legitimately worried.

"Yes," the demon says, his shaking voice breathy and desperate. "Your Majesty, it appears old habits die hard."

Crowley's lost patience now, and there's worry clawing at his insides and he doesn't like that. Not in the slightest. He drops the angel blade from his sleeve he's long since carried, and plunges it into the chest cavity of the demon. Kid hadn't particularly done anything wrong. Just brought him bad news, and oh how Crowley didn't like that.

He wipes the blood off the blade onto the dead demon's shirt, and Crowley tucks it back inside his jacket.

He'd let Dean have his fun. Let him have a few days to himself but enough was enough. If he was going to start picking off any old demon that came his way, Crowley was going to have to put a stop to it. Dean wasn't going to know what hit him.

***

_ Eleven months ago _

Sariel gets addicted to coffee pretty quickly, but that's nothing compared to her sweet tooth. Eight little packets of sugar go into each coffee mug and she grabs about three pastries to every one Claire buys. They stop every day at various run down diners on the interstate, criss-crossing through backwater towns as they make their way towards the west coast. Claire's not sure if the angel is leading her towards Castiel or not, but she follows her blindly either way.

She's gone too far now to ever turn back.

They make an odd pair, and they get quite a few looks from the waitresses when it's late at night. Claire's nearing sixteen and she's still got some rounded innocence to her cheeks and a bright-eyed vibrance to her demeanour that's not yet been dampened by the many uncomfortable nights' sleeps or the continuous driving. To the contrary, Sariel, with her wide hips, dark skin and world-weary eyes, is Claire's complete antithesis. Her vessel is that bit older, looks to be in her mid-to-late twenties, and it only serves to highlight how much younger Claire appears.

And to top it off, Claire had started to worry about her appearance, hiding her long blonde hair in a high pony tail and a dark hoodie. Sariel had picked up a newspaper a week ago, and Claire's face had been on the fifth page, sporting the headline: _Concerns mount over missing girl, 15_.

It's how Claire came to be in the bathroom of their one bed motel with a rusting pair of scissors and a righteous sense of determination within her. She sweeps her cascade of blonde hair over one shoulder and holds it all in one hand. She can't look in the mirror whilst she does it, can't even bare to look at the scissors held loosely around her tresses. She screws her eyes up and snips. She gasps like it hurts, even though it doesn't in the slightest. When she opens her eyes again, it's to a fistful of hair that's no longer attached to her head.

She feels suddenly lighter.

She drops the great fistful into the bath and turns towards the mirror. She's not done a particularly neat job of giving herself a bob. It's a little longer on the right than the left, but it's not a gradual asymmetric sweep. There's too many long sections jutting out. Shit. She starts crying before she can even tell herself it's stupid to.

Sariel knocks on the bathroom door and asks Claire if she can come in. When Claire doesn't give an answer, the door is broken down and she rushes in, her eyes wild and a long silver blade held aloft. "Claire!" she says in a panic, heading straight for the younger girl. "Are you hurt? Are you okay? What happened?"

Claire starts to hiccup laughs through her tears and waves a hand at her hair. "Thought I'd cut it," she says. "I need to look older but... I've not cut my hair in years. Not this short."

A frown deepens on Sariel's brow and her fierce stance slackens. "You're crying because you cut your hair?" the angel asks. "I was under the impression it was painless?"

Claire gives Sariel a watery smile and says, "Yeah, I just did a bad job of it and it looks silly."

The angel doesn't say anything, just narrows her eyes and surveys Claire's hair with great curiosity. "Pass me the scissors," she says finally, and Claire does as she's told. "Don't move your head. And tell me if it hurts." She starts trimming, and Claire no longer feels the need to cry as more tufts of hair go falling to the floor. After about five minutes, Sariel pauses, scissors poised over the ends of one length of Claire's hair and she says, "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

Claire catches Sariel's gaze in the mirror and raises her eyebrows. "Hmm?"

"I can sense another angel nearby," she says after some deliberation, and an aggressive snip at Claire's hair. "The Grace is familiar, and if it's who I think they are, then we would do well not to tangle with them."

"Not Castiel then?" Claire asks, and Sariel shakes her head.

"No." She pauses and takes a step back. "Is this better?" she asks.

Claire smiles and runs her fingers through her short tresses. "Much better, thank you." She turns around and leans against the sink and says, "What happens if we do stumble onto the other angel? Aren't angels the good guys?"

Sariel steps forwards and grips hold of Claire's upper arms tightly. "It is imperative that you discard such a childish notion this instant."

Claire blinks and leans away from the angel, struggling against her too-tight grip. "Sariel-"

"No. You have half-cocked ideas that have been fed to you by an angel that claimed he wanted to only follow orders for heaven's righteousness and then decimated his brethren. He has been corrupted by a boy that swallowed demon blood and allowed himself to be used by Lucifer, and another that refused to assist heaven even after we raised his ungrateful hind from the pit of hell. Castiel is not the angel you believe him to be, and there are many angels out there in the world now that are a thousand times worse."

"Sariel, you're hurting me."

She slackens her grip immediately and takes a step backwards. "Forgive me." Sariel looks crestfallen and absolutely horrified with herself, staring down at her hands like they're traitorous to her. It takes her a little bit but she squares her shoulders and says, "If you wish to go back to your mother, I will understand."

Claire catches her breath. "Are you kidding me?" When Sariel tilts her head to one side and opens her mouth to reply, Claire talks over her, "No. I don't want to leave. It's fine. You're forgiven." Her heart pounds in her chest. Sariel's words had stung more than she'd care to admit to. She's spent years believing Castiel to be the most worthy angel, and to hear someone say otherwise...

She swallows it down, and glances at Sariel. No. She wouldn't believe it. Not until she was standing face to face with him.

"Please believe me, Claire," the angel says. "I never meant to hurt you."

Claire forces a smile and says, "I know. It's okay." She hugs her arms around her stomach and adds, "So not all angels are good guys then?"

Sariel shakes her head. "I assume you've heard of Lucifer?"

Claire's mouth quirks. "Who hasn't?"

"There are those that followed him and his vile hatred of humanity. He viewed you as lowly, and beneath our protection. Instead he poked and prodded and tortured until man became demon. Most of his angelic  followers were hunted down and killed. Our Father did not agree with the things Lucifer preached, and whilst he may have been an archangel, the rest of his followers were not." Sariel leans back against the door jam and looks up at the moulding ceiling. "Those that survived, that turned back against Lucifer, they were arrested and shut away. There are others too. Angels that forced themselves on human women to create the Nephilim abominations. Angels that sought to corrupt humanity in other ways, that taught them knowledge they should never have garnered. Some that slaughtered whole towns claiming divine wrath for petty crimes, when all they wanted was blood sport. To see as many human bodies littered on the ground like broken dolls. All of them, locked away in the deepest, most secure parts of heaven. And now, all of them, fallen out of the sky, back amongst the most fragile of my Father's creations."

Claire whistles between her teeth and slumps back against the sink. "And... and you think one of those angels is nearby?"

Sariel nods. "I'm certain of it."

"Then we can't just avoiding them."

"Claire, did you not-"

"I get it. I'm fragile and human, but you're not. This could be an angel that followed Lucifer, right? Why don't we do what you guys used to do. Hunt them down and kill them?"

Sariel's eyes bug. "Claire that's absurd. Whole garrisons of angels would go out to hunt one rebel angel."

Claire drums her fingers against the porcelain sink. "I know you're hardly Castiel's biggest fan but," she taps the side of her head, "he did leave some knowledge in my head. You say whole garrisons right? He lead one, didn't he?" She only waits for Sariel to nod. "Then I might have a plan."

***

_Present Day_

Sam makes the six hour journey in five, and stretches out his back once he unfolds himself from the Impala outside the tiny sheriff's department. He cracks his neck and double checks he has his badge in place and indicates for Cas to follow him inside.

They ask to see the officer in charge, and the deputy comes to the front desk. "Deputy Anna Bennett," she says, shaking their hands firmly. "Sheriff's been out of town on vacation for the past week. I'm afraid you gentlemen are stuck with me."

Cas smiles warmly at the deputy and tells her that that's fine with them. She leads them into the sheriff's office, and offers them coffee which they both gladly accept. "So what can we do for you, Agents?" she asks.

Sam wastes no time jumping in with, "The businessman, Anthony Tickman?" The deputy's eyes narrow slightly. "We're investigating a string of similar murders, just been assigned to the case. Thought we'd pop in and look through the reports first hand, if that's okay with you?"

"The Tickman case?" she queries and then shakes her head. "Man that was brutal. Could've gone through my whole life without seeing something like that. Freaked a lot of people out round these parts, let me tell you." She puts her coffee mug down and heads over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the office. "Lot more folks going to church these days. Never even had anything close to a suspect either. And that just makes things worse. Whole town's twitchy. Only suspicious activity was two girls checking into the motel off the interstate three days prior, and checking out the day after. But they don't fit the profile you guys sent us, and they left no paper trail so the lead's gone cold. Besides, description the stoned kid on front desk gave us was hardly enough to put an APB out."

She hands over a thick wad of paperwork and crime scene photos and says, "That's the lot I'm afraid."

"Who was first on scene?" Sam asks, flicking open the file and glancing at the first page.

"That'd be Johnny. Officer Cauldwell," Bennett tells them.

"Will we be able to talk to him?" Cas asks.

Bennett shakes her head. "Cauldwell's been signed off for three months now. Doctor's diagnosed him with PTSD. When he found Tickman, the guy was still on fire." She pauses and picks up her coffee mug. "I know you wanna do a thorough job gentlemen, but I'd rather you didn't trouble him with questioning any further. Man's been through enough." She sips her coffee and heads for the door. "I'll leave you fellas to it. Just let me know when you're done, or if there's anything else I can do for you."

She heads out the room and closes the door behind her. Sam starts flicking through the file, passing photographs over to Cas to see if he can tell which angel was burnt to cinders.

Cas studies the images with great care before placing them back down on the desk and taking the next one. "The potential suspects," Cas poses, and then doesn't carry on.

"What about them?" Sam asks, pausing halfway through a detailed report from Deputy Bennett herself.

"We should try and find them."

"Look, Cas, I get it. Someone is killing angels and you wanna know who. And I get it, you wanna put a stop to it. But we haven't got much to go on here."

Cas throws him a worried glance and says, "I'm not sure that's quite the case." He slides a photograph back across the table. "Look."

Sam picks the picture up and studies it. He's not really sure what he's looking at, except that same symbol burnt into the ground that Cas had mentioned meant vengeance in Enochian. "What is it?" Cas taps the bottom of the symbol, where there's a solitary straight line in amongst the curvature. Dug into the burnt earth are - upon very close inspection - are a string of strange looking markings starting with a number 13. "What am I looking at?"

Cas catches his eye and says in a voice that's close to shaking, "My name"

***

Crowley throws a burning match into his pewter cup of blood and herbs, takes a step backwards and finishes off the last line of his devil's trap. It takes less than thirty seconds for Dean to appear out of thin air, smack in the centre of the trap, and though Crowley's doing his best to be Dean's mentor, he can't help but get a kick out of the role reversal. If all those nightly nastiest could see the great Winchester now...

"Dean," he says jovially, and rocks on his heals at the edge of the trap.

Dean turns around and Crowley feels his smile drip away. The kid's a mess. His clothes are torn and covered in caked on blood, and his shirt has been ripped along that damn angel blade wound that's still oozing in his chest.

Delightful.

"What happened to you?" Crowley asks incredulously. He's pretty sure there are new cuts across Dean's face and hands than there had been at the Tran's house.

Dean grimaces, doesn't reply, and scuffs his toe at the painted devil's trap. "You drew this?" he asks before adding, "Your signage could use some neatening up. You're lucky this thing can even hold."

"Funny," Crowley snipes.

Dean shrugs. "Wasn't meant to be."

Crowley narrows his eyes. "It might surprise you to learn I've never had much cause to draw too many of these in the past." He clears his throat. "And now I'm hoping you and I can come to some kind of agreement so I don't have to draw any again."

"Is that so?" Dean asks. "You could just let me out now."

Crowley stifles a snort. "I hear tell you're hunting down my demons." Dean beams at him, not even having the decency to look ashamed. "But at the same time, you're still cashing in my deals." Crowley sticks his hands in his pockets and continues, "You can understand why that might be making a little nervous. I'm not a lover of mixed signals."

Dean follows Crowley's lead, and sticks his bloody hands into his jeans pockets, looking almost bored. "Sorry about your mooks," is all he says as he walks right up to the edge of the trap. "But if I wanted to kill you, Crowley, I could've done it already."

Crowley opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. He takes a step back from the edge of the devil's trap and says, "You could've got out of that whenever you wanted, couldn't you?"

Dean smirks and steps over the edge of the trap. "Next time, make sure your sigils are right." Dean bends over and howls with laughter. "Man, you're lucky you never had to rely on trapping Abaddon in one of these. She'd've run you through in seconds."

Crowley doesn't like this. Dean's getting too cocky and Crowley needs a sure-fire way to bring him down a peg or two. He doesn't like being made fun of, especially not by a Winchester, and especially not by the demons that should be belly-to-the-ground grovelling for his forgiveness. "I'd like to remind you that I'm still your-"

"King, yeah, I know, whatever," Dean says, and starts to walk away.

Crowley shifts beside him and grabs hold of Dean by the elbow. "Uh uh, I'm not done with you yet. Don't think for one second I find you irreplaceable." He thrusts his hand inside his inner pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. "Cash in these. Or don't. The choice is entirely yours. For all I care you can swan back off to your worried wife and that overgrown giant you called little brother, but if you do, you're a wanted man, understand? Every demon I have at my disposal will be ordered to bring me your head or die trying." Crowley lets go of Dean with a shove. "Up to you, Dean. But don't wait too long to give me an answer."

He disappears then, pops back to his fancy gilded office and tries not to panic too much.

If Dean goes back to them then the whole opperation is over, and Crowley's not too sure he's ready to admit that yet.

***

_ Eight months ago _

They're sipping warm bears from cans on the dock of a little lake, the sun setting vibrant pink and orange ahead. The day's still hot, the air feeling like it could almost catch fire. 

Claire's got her legs dangling in the water and she'd forced Sariel to roll up the legs of her jeans so that she could do the same. The angel hadn't been too keen on the idea, as she hadn't seen the point, but Claire had persuaded her that they'd been hunting down the bad angels for three months now, and each execution was going better than the last. They needed time to relax, recuperate.

Claire pops her can down on the edge of the dock and drags her sweated through vest top over her head. Sariel glances over at her curiously as Claire starts to unbutton her shorts. They pool at her ankles and then Claire asks, "You coming?"

"Coming where?" the angel asks, frowning.

Claire throws her a whithering look, takes a few steps back up the dock before charging to the edge and dive bombing in with a shout of glee.

The water has been warmed up by the heat of the day, but it's still welcomed respite from the overbearing heat of the skin-searing sun. Claire kicks back to the surface and treads water, swiping drops from her eyes. "It's _nice_ ," she says to the angel. "Promise."

Sariel gives her an indulgent smile, much like her dad used to throw her when she'd done something particularly endearing, and Claire kicks onto her back and does a little bit of backstroke. 

She's about halfway out into the middle of the lake when she rights herself again and whines, in her most petulant voice possible, "Come _on_ , Sara."

The angel has her head tipped back laughing and Claire thinks she looks beautiful. It might be the trick of the light, or the heat making her hallucinate, but she swears she can almost see the angel's halo, a great golden crown around her head.

She squints, trying to get a better look, trying to determine if she really _can_ see it, when she flicks her gaze a little to the right and her blood runs cold.

A man stands on the dock behind Sariel, a large silver blade in his right hand and Claire just about manages to scream, "Sariel, look out!" as he brings the blade down on the angel.

Claire speeds back through the water, doing the fastest front crawl she can and pushes herself until her muscles are screaming. When she reaches the dock, she hoists herself up without a second thought, regardless of whether or not the man is still there with his weapon. 

Sariel is bleeding heavily, but she's grappling with the man, her own silver blade held aloft, and she tries to bring it down through his eye. 

He twists out of her stance, her blade scratching through his hair and blue light bleeding into the heavy air. "Call yourself an angel," the man is saying, lunging forwards.

Sariel parries the attack, throws her blade to the other hand and nicks the other angel under his armpit.

And Claire is elated, standing stock still watching the fight unfold. Who was Sariel kidding? She wasn't a warrior? She still knew how to fight better than Claire ever could.

In a stroke of triumph, Sariel finally gets the upper hand and slams her blade straight through the other guy's face.

Pain shoots through Claire's core and she looks down at her chest to see the tip of a tapered silver blade protruding from her breast bone. Blood pumps out down her chest and Claire's vision doubles and spins. Her stomach feels light and airy, and she's in pain. So much pain.

Her knees slam to the deck and she's pretty sure she's getting splinters. Her hand comes up to touch the tip of the blade that's shiny with red and she wants to giggle. _Get some fucking perspective, Novak._

Somewhere off in the distance she thinks she hears someone screaming her name. Part of her hears her mother and there's a pain in her heart that has nothing to do with the huge blade stuck in her. Just like dad. Run off to play with angels and dying in the process. What the hell was wrong with her family?

And even though it's a sunny day, even though the sun was warm and bright, Claire feels cold and the world starts to dim from her vision. 

There's a brilliant blue flash that lights up the dock and a heavy splash of water, and then Sariel's voice is moaning, "No no no, Claire please."

Her hands are gentle and warm and Claire tips her eyes up to catch the angel's gaze. She knows she should be scared. She should be fighting to stay alive, to cling to this world, but she figures, demons are real, and so are angels, which means, chances are, so are heaven and hell. She finds that oddly comforting. Turns out Sunday school hadn't been a complete pack of lies after all.

The blade is extracted from her. Claire knows that's what just happened by the sudden loss of feeling spinning down through her lower body. Something must've happened to her spinal column then. That's nice.

She should try and say something. She should thank Sariel for teaching her such wonderful things.

There are lips pressed to her head and Claire's eyes drop closed. Seconds left, each rushing by so _fast_.

She forces her eyes open, to get one final look at the angel who cradles her and Claire doesn't see the skin she wears.

Instead she sees the giant being of light, and ice, and love that makes up Sariel. She has four animal faces, covered over with a human mask. But she can see those animals: horse, coyote, ram and owl. They're circled by a halo - Claire had been right after all - that shines, crisp and golden, and far far brighter than the warm sunset. When she looks at her, she can hear a choir singing; a mournful chant praising God and the wonders of heaven echoes across the water. 

Sariel's Grace flickers.

There are wounds to it. Great gashes across arms and chest and stomach, and it grows a little dimmer with every second. And that's not fair. Claire's totally okay with dying herself, but she doesn't want Sariel to die too. That wasn't part of the plan. 

Claire gets it then. Why Sariel doesn't just heal Claire of her wounds. It's cause she's not got enough strength left in her to accomplish such a task. Claire raises a hand - tries too - that's heavy and feels foreign to her body. She wants to hold the wounds together until Sariel can stitch them back together, but the angel just looks mournful and resigned to accepting her fate alongside Claire. 

The Grace gives a great shudder and Sariel doubles over, clutching Claire to her tightly, burying her four faces into the crook of Claire's neck. "Live," the angel whispers and warmth floods through her.

It hurts at first. It's just too hot, too much.

Her spine snaps back into place, her internal organs mesh back together, her veins take in an influx of fresh blood and her eyes fly open and she chokes on air.

She can feel Sariel's Grace everywhere, filling her up, flooding through her system and she wants to anchor it to her. She wants to chain it to her bones and dig her claws into it. She wants to feel those shredded wings braking out of her back...

But it washes away, drains like water down the sink and Claire's left with nothing but loss and a heartbeat thrumming rapidly under her remade sternum. 

Sariel lays on her heavily, bloody and lifeless, and Claire struggles out from under her. "Sariel?" she asks, trying to get the angel's attention. "Sara?"

No reply. Nothing.

Claire looks around the dock. The only people around are two dead men: one at the other end of the dock, the other floating face down on the waters' surface a few feet away. 

"Sariel, please," Claire moans. "Please don't leave me alone."

***

_Present Day_

The moon hangs heavy and full in the sky as Sam and Cas dig up the Tickman grave. Sam swipes the sweat from his brow, knowing he's smearing mud into his skin and leans heavily against his shovel. Cas doesn't look the slightest bit tired, but Sam's starting to ache deep in the shoulders and he knows he's gonna feel that burn for the next three days at least.

"You sure this is going to work?" Sam asks after several more minutes worth of digging.

Cas finally pauses and delivers a measured shrug. "It's the only idea I have."

Sam resigns himself to the continued digging, and keeps at it until the hit the top of the wooden box. They bend down and sweep aside the last of the earth caked around the casket and then Cas is cracking open the lid with ease. 

Death apparently agrees with Tickman a lot better after a few months of exposure. Decomposition has set in, and he looks more or less like a skin covered skeleton, rather than an extra for the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

The minute the lid's opened, Cas recoils in horror. "Eremiel," he says, staring at the dead body. 

"Friend of yours?" Sam asks. 

Cas shakes his head. "No. He was..." Cas stops, hoists himself out of the grave and out of sight. Sam frowns, trying to catch sight of the angel until he hears retching.

"Hey, Cas?" Sam calls. "Stay up there, just tell me which bone it is you wanted." He hears sick splatting the ground and sees Cas' hand appear at the top of the grave, holding his thumb up. "You want... his thumb?" Sam asks curiously.

Cas sticks his head over the mouth of the grave, clearly frowning at Sam. Sam privately hopes Cas isn't about to puke all over him. "No," Cas says firmly. "His sixth thoracic vertebrae." And then Cas disappears again, and Sam hears more vomiting. 

"Great," Sam mutters to himself, and looks down at Eremiel's burnt and leathery body. "Couldn't give me a hint as to what the heck that is."

Cas' voice sounds over the grave, "Should be the one directly behind the heart." 

Sam gets to work, having not time to feel squeamish at hacking into the corpse. He can't quite figure which bone is meant to be which, so he hacks out three and hopes at least one of them is right.

Sam clambers out of the grave and, avoiding three pools of sick, makes his way over to Cas. "Weak stomach?" he asks.

Cas shakes his head and says, "I can see the damage to the burnt out Grace as well as the flesh." Cas looks pale at the thought. "I've never seen holy oil death before. Not like this."

Sam nods and then shows off the bones. "Any of these work?"

Cas picks the top one and starts walking towards the car. "This one. You can leave the others."

Sam tosses the other two back into the Tickman grave and follows over to the Impala. 

Cas has popped the trunk and is rummaging through the collection to locate the various spell ingredients he apparently needs. He crushes up the vertebrae in his fist, and brushes the residual dust off into a dish Sam and Dean had long since used for demon summonings.  

He throws in other ingredients; animal hair, the holy oil, the holy water, a crucifix and then picks up a silver knife and slices open his own palm, bleeding into the bowl. 

"That necessary?" Sam asks, nodding at Cas' hand and by way of reply, Cas grabs Sam's wrist and slices open his palm too. "Hey!" Sam shouts. "Do you mind?" He rips his now bloody hand from Cas' grip, but his blood has already dropped into the rest of the ingredients. 

Cas, apparently satisfied, says, "No," and then touches his forefinger to Sam's open wound and it heals over. "Sorry," he tacks on, not sounding it at all.

"So, how's this going to work?" Sam asks, rubbing the palm of his hand. "Can angels even be summoned any more without wings?" He pauses and the adds, "How does that work with you? I mean, you've got Grace back but you weren't an angel when all the other angels fell and lost their wings. Do you still have wings?" He tilts his head around Cas, glancing at his back like he might be able to notice any wings, or lack thereof. 

Cas just shrugs and says, "I have wings, but without my own Grace they're more like heavy decoration."

Sam grimaces at Cas' tone and knows he's hit a nerve. He keeps his mouth firmly shut as Cas finishes off mixing the ingredients and only speaks again once Cas drops a burning pile of dried herbs into the blood concoction and watches it flame purple. "Now we wait?"

"Now we wait."

***

_ Eight months ago _

Claire gets Sariel's unmoving body into the car and guns it to the nearest motel she can find. She uses nearly all of their savings and pays upfront for a room for the next week and says she doesn't want housekeeping to bother them. She manages to drag Sariel into the room without being noticed, baring her weight over her shoulders and get her down on a bed.

She's breathing, just, and there's a hint of a heartbeat when Claire touches her fingers to the angel's neck.

She grabs their bags and the empty water bottle that had been rolling around in the passenger side foot well and dashes back to the room. She fills the bottle up in the kitchenette sink and goes about cleaning out Sariel's wounds. The bed sheets are instantly stained pink. 

The cuts don't look like they're healing, and Sariel's heart rate is getting slower by the second, so Claire starts rummaging through her backpack, looking for her first-aid and sewing kits.

She pours half the bottle of antiseptic into the cuts, and then pours some more over her hands and the thin sewing needle she'd been using to darn holes in her shirts. It was all she had. So it'd have to do.

She threads the needle with simple black cotton and ties off the end. Her hand pauses over Sariel's side - where the largest of the cuts lies oozing - before she steels herself, pushes the gaping skin together with her left hand and forces the needle through with more strength than she'd initially anticipated needing.

She gags as she wriggles the needle through Sariel's flesh and pulls the thread tight. There's no going back now. Just keep going. Push, wriggle, push, pull. Push wriggle, push, pull. Her fingers slip through blood and the grip her left hand has on Sariel starts to slide about. 

Her fingers are sweating - how do fingers even sweat? - but she just keeps going: push, wriggle, push, pull. And then she's at the top, tying off the thread and leaning down to bite it free without a second thought.

She swipes the blood from her lips and moves to the wound through Sariel's shoulder. 

It takes about half an hour to sew up both sides of the cut. Claire just keeps going knowing that if she stops the enormity of what she's doing will hit her and she'll freak out. Once she's done she goes to the bathroom and scrubs her hands clean until they're raw, then she goes back to the little first-aid kit and finds clean dressings to cover over the ugly, stitched up cuts. 

Then, and only then, does she start work on the room. She grabs a Sharpie from her bag and throws up all the wardings Sariel had taught her over the walls, and some that had been left printed on her mind by Castiel. She crouches down to the floor and draws a devil's trap on the threshold and then throws a blanket over Sariel.

She goes back to the car, thinking she just needed to get out of the room and away from the stench of blood and antiseptic, but she kicks it into gear and drives to the nearest all-night gas station. She restocks on the antiseptic and bandages, grabs a large back of rock salt, then picks up a large bottle of vodka as well as a bar of chocolate. She drops them all down on the counter with a bottle of henna hair dye and slides over the thirty dollars the cashier rings up. He doesn't even glance at her when he punches in the price for the vodka, and Claire could lean over the counter and kiss him. 

She restrains herself and drives back to the motel.

The room doesn't smell as bad as she thought it would. Everything's just as she left it, even Sariel, who's heartbeat is still slow. Claire cuts open the bag of salt and covers the door and windows, then she pulls out Sariel's angel blade from her pack, twists off the lid of the vodka, and drops into a chair overlooking the angel. She knocks back a large mouthful, revels the burn as it goes down, and chases it with another. 

She keeps the vodka in one hand and the blade in the other. "You're gonna be okay," she says, and for the life of her, she doesn't know which of the two of them she's addressing.

***

_Present Day_

Cas spends forty five minutes filling the Tickman grave back in, even though Sam tells him there's not much point to it. When he climbs back into the Impala - still clean, not even having broken a sweat - Sam's listening to a classic rock station quietly. Cas doesn't say it out loud, but he assumes Sam's only listening part out of habit, and part out of missing Dean.

Cas squashes that train of thought quickly. Missing Dean was something Cas had long since grown accustomed to. But missing a Dean that was not himself, that would hate himself for the things he was doing once they found a way to bring him back to himself... that was much much worse. So he buried himself in more research than he ever had before, dedicating half his time to tracking Dean's whereabouts, and the rest reading through some truly off-the-wall information on the Mark of Cain, it's possibilities, and the potential whereabouts of its originator.

After what feels like a long time, Sam clears his throat and says, "So, who was the angel we just desecrated?"

"Eremiel?" Cas shakes his head and leans back in the seat heavily. "He had an affinity for causing storms and natural disasters. Loved creating chaos, killing thousands in his wake, claiming it was the work of our Father for humanity's sins." Cas casts Sam a sideways glance and continues, "After he sunk Atlantis, we learnt he had been working on Lucifer's orders. We took him in for questioning, wanting to learn if there were other angels that had turned. That was the last I heard of him."

"Atlantis was real then?"

Cas frowns. Of all the things Sam could've taken out of that conversation... Never mind. "I thought he'd been executed." Cas continues as though Sam hadn't interrupted at all. "He must've been locked in heaven's prison."

Sam runs his fingers through his hair. "Like Gadreel then."

"Yes. But with a more murderous modus operandi."

They fall into silence, lulled by the radio. A few hours pass by, the sky slowly lightening up from heavy black to steel grey. Sam catches his attention and nods to the horizon. "We should probably start thinking about making a move. Don't want to be here when people start showing up." Cas resigns himself to not getting any answers when Sam swears under his breath and says, "Or not."

Cas looks up, catches sight of the car pulling into the yard and opens the door within seconds.

Sam calls after him, but Cas doesn't slow up.

_Angel_.

***

Sam chases Cas out of the Impala and grabs hold oh his shoulder to get him to slow down. Cas is shaking beneath his touch and it takes Sam a few minutes to realise why.

Two girls are climbing out of the other car. A young girl with choppy red hair, and an older woman with an ethereal air about her. Their angel has answered their summons alright.

Before Sam can introduce themselves, Cas shrugs from Sam's grip and takes a step towards the red head. "What on earth are you doing here?" he spits vehemently and Sam wonders what the heck is going on.

"Er, Cas?"

The girl juts her chin out and hiss, "Oh, _now_ you care."

"Am I missing something here?" Sam asks, staring between the three people around him. 

"Where is your mother?" Cas asks the girl.

"What do you care?"

"Claire-"

"No. Don't you use his voice and try and act like him. Don't you _dare_. He left us. _You_ left us. You left _me_. And I _begged_ you to come back and you never did. So don't you dare try and act like you care now."

Sam squints at the girl and something jogs in his memory. It's only half put together, buried under a haze of demon blood, but his eyes bug, looking between Cas and the girl and he sees it. Sees those bright blue eyes that he's so used to seeing, that're just in the wrong body, and Sam says, "Claire? Claire _Novak_?"

The red head pins Sam with such a disdainful stare he's surprised he doesn't die from it. She clearly holds him in such little regard she doesn't even wish to waste breath on him.

In the meantime, Cas looks like he's changed tactics and now addresses the other woman. "Sariel," he says stiffly. "It's unlike you to kidnap humans."

She lets out a vicious laugh. "I did no such thing, Castiel. She came with me willingly." She crosses her arms over her chest and continues, "Claire wanted to be your vessel again. A foolish notion, and I've given her many reasons why it would be a terrible idea, but she wouldn't be dissuaded."

"You _want_ to be an angel vessel?" Sam asks Claire incredulously. "Take it from someone that knows, Claire, you really don't want that for your life."

"As if you have any idea," Claire spits. "I'm his true vessel. Ask him, he'll tell you. It wasn't my dad, it's _me_ but he still won't use me."

Cas looks about ready to explode beside him, so Sam takes a step closer to the angel. "Wanna know who's vessel I was born to be?" Sam asks her. "Lucifer." Claire's mouth drops open. Sam takes that as invitation to carry on. "And I said Yes. The Big Apocalyptic _Yes_ because I wanted to hurl him back into Hell. And I did it. I know what it's like. To have this thing inside you torn open and filled up with an angel. I know what it's like when they leave. I know how they leave a part of you open and empty, but believe me, that is better than tearing through the fabric of the universe at the speed of light, and feeling your body get broken apart and stitched back together just for kicks."

He stops talking and its like dust settling in the wake of something catastrophic. And then the other angel - Sariel - lunges for him.

He goes flying backwards, skidding through the grass. She's stronger than she looks, then again, she's an angel.

Her fist connects with the side of his face and it's like getting hit in the head with a brick. 

Sam tries to tip her off him, but she won't budge, so he scrambles at the back of his jeans, trying to free his gun. 

Sariel punches him again, but he manages to finally get his gun free and he fires it, at the most spectacularly awkward angle in the world, but it catches Sariel in the shoulder and she howls in pain.

She goes toppling off Sam and withdraws an angel blade. 

Sam manages to get to his feet. Not too far away, Claire has Cas pinned to the ground and is pummelling his face with her fists. Even from this distance, he can see that the blood on her knuckles isn't just Cas'.

Cas looks a state, all bloody face and broken nose, and he just takes the abuse she hurls his way.

Sariel takes Sam's moment of contemplation and lunges forwards with the angel blade.

"Why the hell are you even attacking me?" Sam asks, dodging her blade and trying to swing back round to the Impala. That'll teach him to leave his own silver sword in the god damned trunk.

"You were Lucifer's," she hisses, catching Sam's arm with the blade. He twists, tries to get away from her, and he leaves himself wide open for attack when she drops the blade to her other hand and brings it up.

Sam's convinced this is it. He's gonna go out in a dirty fight via angel blade, just like his brother, but the blow never comes.

Sariel goes spinning away from Sam, thrown by an invisible force.

Sam's first instinct is to look to Cas, but he's still being beaten relentless by Claire who's shrieking, "Take me back. I said yes. Take me back. Take me back. _Take me back!_ "

Then he turns towards the Impala.

Sitting on the roof, heels of his dirty boots barely touching hood, is Dean. His eyes are blown black and they're pinned on Claire and Cas. There's a tick going in his jaw and he raises his hand, swipes two fingers to the left and Claire goes flying off Cas, slamming into the side of her car.

"Word of advice," Dean says. "Learn the word ' _no_ '."

Sariel is back on her feet, gunning towards the Impala but Dean raises a hand and she's pinned in her tracks. 

"I get it. Vigilante angel joins up with the kid that was possessed by Cas for five minutes and has had some kind of God Complex ever since. Has a nice ring to it." Dean disappears from the top of the Impala and reappears a foot away from Sariel. "But you try and kill my brother again and I'll gut you. Always have wanted to rip an angels' wings out."

Sariel tightens her grip on the angel blade, though it looks like she can't move. "Looks like Hell crawled back inside of you, Dean Winchester," she says. "You were never fit to be called the Righteous Man. You were never worthy enough for Michael."

Dean, surprisingly, chooses to ignore her, and makes his way to Claire. He picks her up by the throat, and she tries to kick him, but he holds her too far away from him. Her fingers claw at his hand, trying to get purchase, trying to loosen his grip.

There's something vicious and otherworldly radiating from Dean, and it's the first time it hits Sam that this isn't his brother, not _really_ , and he tries to move forwards but finds his feet firmly glued to the ground. "Dean!" he shouts. "Dean, don't do this."

Claire's eyes are rolling in her head when Cas hurtles out of nowhere and tackles Dean to the floor. Startled, his grip on Claire slackens and she drops to the floor on all fours, gasping for breath.

Cas pins Dean's arms over his head and hisses, "Stop this." Dean struggles against the angel's weight. He wins a small amount of purchase, only to be slammed back into the grass. "I said stop."

"So you did. You mind getting up, Cas?" Dean asks before smirking and adding, "And not in the sexy way."

Cas climbs off Dean and hauls him up by the front of his shirt. "I think you should go," he says finally, his eyes downcast. 

Dean looks at Cas, and Sam sees something of his brother there. It's fleeting, a flicker of something very human just behind his eyes and then it's gone, covered over with eyes filled with black once more. Dean turns towards Sam then and raises his chin. "That what you want too, Sammy?"

It's not. He wants Dean to come home. He wants to be able to find a cure and save him. "Last time we saw you, you threatened to kill us if we saw you again."

That vicious rage unfurls from Dean and he looks about ready to start spitting venom. "Fine," he says. And before Sam can even argue with him, Dean disappears in the blink of an eye.

Sariel rushes to Claire's side and splays a palm flat over her back. "Are you okay?" she asks in hushed tones she clearly hopes Sam won't hear.

Claire nods and gets to her feet, throwing cautious glances between Sam and Cas.

Cas squares his shoulders and says, "I won't take you as my vessel, Claire. This is something I won't ever change my mind about."

Claire's hand slips into Sariel's and she looks like she's about to cry. But Cas steps forwards and cups her face in his hands. She looks like she's going to try and lean away but Cas stops her by saying, "I want to try and make this right." She stops struggling and he leans down and kisses the crown of her head. 

There's a warm flood of blueish light, that lights up the graveyard, and Claire's eyes flicker up to Cas' as he takes a step away from her. "Thank you," she says, extracting herself from Sariel's grip and hugging Cas tightly around the middle.

Sam's pointedly reminded of seeing Claire as a little girl, doing the same to her father.

"Look after her," Cas tells Sariel, and Sariel nods. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, sister, but I beg you, please stop slaughtering our brothers and sisters. Too many angels have died already." Sariel bristles at his words, and looks like she's about to spoil for a fight when Cas says, "I know I'm to blame for many of them. Not a single day passes when I don't regret that. If I could turn the clock backwards and undo everything I did, I would in a heartbeat. But I can't. And I will spend the rest of my days trying to atone for what I have done." He holds his hand out and says, "Please, Sariel. No more."

***

They'd left Claire and Sariel in the graveyard, after the angel had agreed to Cas she would stop her vendetta against the guilty angels. Cas had explained, upon them climbing into the Impala, that Sariel had long presided over the heavenly jails, but only after spending a millennia on a specialised reconnaissance detail ordered by Michael. She used to hunt the Fallen down and pass judgement, until she got too good at her job and was moved.

Sam asks him what he did for Claire, and Cas informs him that he tried to close up the gaping hole he'd left in his wake. He'd flushed her with a small amount of Grace and pulled her vessel closed again. He guiltily says it's something he should've done a long time ago, but the last time they'd met hadn't really been under the best of circumstances.

Part of Sam wants to ask what became of Jimmy, but he remembers Lucifer snapping his fingers, remembers Cas being blown apart to atoms and figures it was a miracle that Cas sprung back together afterwards. He highly doubts a human soul would've been ripped out of heaven just so Cas could continue to ride his meat suit. But ultimately, Sam keeps quiet. He doesn't particularly want to know if it was his own hands that had killed an innocent man that had sacrificed his life for his daughter. 

They don't talk about Dean. They actively talk about anything but. It's only when they've exhausted every other topic, and sat through three solid hours of silence, that Sam finally cracks and says, "He's not all gone, right? There's still something of _Dean_ left in him, isn't there?"

Cas doesn't answer for a long time, making a point of staring straight out the window instead. When he does speak, it's in barely more than a whisper. "Barely." It's sounds like he's trying not to cry.

Sam's not quite sure what to say to that, so lulls back into silence. He wants to argue. After all, Dean had shown up and saved their lives. That had to count for something, right?

Cas surprises him by breaking the silence again when he says, "When I pulled him up off the floor, his shirt slipped."

Sam side eyes Cas wondering where the hell the angel is going with this but Cas carries on without prompting, and Sam is eternally grateful. "You said Metatron stabbed him in the heart?"

"Yeah."

"The wound isn't healing."

Sam's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "But he's a demon. Demon's can heal from mortal wounds. I watched Meg fall out of a third story window and then carry on walking."

"Angel blades," Cas says, "wound far deeper than just the vessel. They're designed to snuff out Grace, Sam. Regardless of Dean's demonic state, that wound will never heal on its own."

A leaden weight settles in Sam's stomach. So even if they can cure Dean of being a demon, he's still gonna die. Perfect. 

He wants to beat his head against the steering wheel. Wants to groan and curse. 

What the hell kind of ultimatum was this?

***

_Eight months ago_

Claire is towel drying her just dyed hair when Sariel finally wakes up. The angel tries to prop herself up on shaking arms, but Claire rushes to her side and keeps the angel pinned down on the bed.

"Hey," Claire says. "How're you feeling?"

Sariel surveys her curiously and asks, "Your hair hasn't always been that colour, has it?"

Claire giggles. "No. Thought I should change it, try and look a bit different if we're gonna stay on the run."

"Help me sit?" the angel asks and though Claire thinks it's probably for the best if Sariel remains laying down, she does as she's asked and hauls Sariel up the bed, propping her with a load of pillows.

Once she's upright, she reaches out a hand and cups Claire's face gently. Claire feels a little thrown by the contact but goes with it, closing her eyes at the touch. "I'm so glad you're okay," Sariel says softly. "I've grown to care about you very much."

Claire smiles and feels her cheeks flood with warmth. "Oh shut up," she mumbles. "You'd've healed anybody." And even though Claire's saying the words, she knows they're not quite true.

Sariel doesn't correct her, instead she touches the stitched wound at her side. It's still a mess. The cotton has barely held in some places and only does so because it's congealed with so much blood it's grown stiff. "This is much neater than anything I could've managed with a needle and thread."

Claire snorts. "You only have to touch someone and you can heal them. You don't need to know how to use a sewing supplies."

Sariel snatches out and clings to Claire's hand. "This saved my life," she said. "You didn't just stitch up skin, you've held parts of my Grace together long enough for them to fuse back to one. If you hadn't been there, Claire, I would've burnt out on that dock."

Claire knows the only reason the angel came so close to dying was because of Claire. Because she healed her and dragged her back from the brink of death.

"Yeah, well. Guess that's mutual then."

Sariel leans forwards and presses her lips to Claire's. It's not sexual, nor romantic. Just a brief kiss of mutual understanding. "You are my best friend, Claire. There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect you."

Claire bumps her forehead against the angel's and grins, "I guess that's mutual too."


	4. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A requiem played as you begged for forgiveness. "Don't touch me," I screamed, "I've got unfinished business!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry this took long to get posted. This chapter was hard to get written >_

_Seven years ago_

At the age of sixteen, James Foster knows many things. He knows the weight of a girls breast in his hand. He knows how a few too many bottles of your dad's beer can make your spine feel tingly. He also knows that you shouldn't take your friends for granted because you never know when they're gonna turn out to have the most awesome super powers in the world.

James pulls the bike chain off the door of the den his father had built him and his little brother at the bottom of their back yard when they were kids, and makes his way inside. They've got a small generator powering the place, enough to light the solitary light bulb hanging from the ceiling and to power the telly and his X-Box that are set up on a makeshift table. He turns on the TV, and settles back into the musty sofa and waits for Matt to arrive with the beer.

He doesn't have to wait long. Matt kicks the door in with the tip of his toes, wearing a full grey beard and bushy eyebrows. James grins and relieves his friends of the six-pack and watches, not wanting to miss the display.

Matt starts by scratching just behind his right ear - he always does - and his skin starts to peal. Matt makes the most gross thing look so cool. He's literally tearing the skin of his face off and James is fucking fascinated. The grey beard and hair is pulled away, the lined, pasty skin is tossed aside like some grotesque mask and all that's left is Matt shaking out his dark black curls with his olive skin crinkling around his eyes. He grins widely at James.

He undoes the top button of his light blue shirt to reveal his shift had only got as far as his shoulders and he starts to roll up his sleeves. James pulls two bottles of beer from the pack and twists off the lids, holding one out to Matt.

"Cheers dude," Matt says, taking the bottle and chinking it against James' own.

"Dude? That what we calling one another now?" James nudges his knee against Matt's and his friend just grins a little more. He cocks an eyebrow then tips back his beer bottle, smirking around the glass. James nudges him again and says, "Whatever."

He drops onto the floor and crawls towards the tv, picks up the two controllers from beside the X-Box and throws one into Matt's lap. "Here you go then, _dude_."

Matt wheezes as the controller catches him in the junk and he chokes on a mouthful of beer. "You're not gonna let that drop are you?"

James fires up Call of Duty and settles back against the sofa between Matt's legs. "You're an ass," he says finally, as he sets up the mission.

But Matt leans down and presses his lips to James' neck and it sends a thrill through him. "Thought that was your favourite part of me." James can feel the smirk against his skin.

He tilts his head round and he wants to wipe that look off Matt's face. He leans in, ghosts his lips to Matt's and wants to kiss him. Wants to fit their mouths together until they're groaning and he's hard in his pants. Instead he pulls back, starts the game and says, "I'll only get you off if you beat me."

Matt swears under his breath and starts jamming at his controller furiously. A swell of fondness ripples through James as he starts to beat the crap out of his best friend.

This was still so new and terrifying. Tell him his best friend could rip his skin off and become anyone? That didn't scare him. Barely even phased him. But tell him his best friend of seven years was in love with him? Well, that had knocked him for six.

Matt takes that opportunity to lean forwards and start nibbling James' ear, getting him well and truly distracted enough that he winds up walking into a land mine. Matt trails his lips down James' neck and then presses an open mouthed kiss to his pulse point. James doesn't even care he just lost. Doesn't care about much in particular. Just doesn't want this feeling to ever stop. Blood is rushing straight to his dick and there's a flush across his cheeks when Matt murmurs, "Think you owe me an orgasm," and slides his hands down James' chest.

"Think you cheated," James says, tilting his head and finally bringing their mouths together. He groans into his mouth as Matt's tongue slides behind his teeth.

It still frightened him how much he liked this. Sure, James had made out with girls and enjoyed it just as much, but this? What he had with Matt? It was so eternally better. It wasn't shallow, wasn't just a bit of hormone driven lust. It was real. And how many people were lucky enough to say they'd really fallen in love with their best friend?

James breaks away, stands up and pulls his t-shirt over his head, before climbing onto Matt's lap and kissing him furiously once again. He tangles his fingers through his dark curls and grins into his mouth.

He hadn't said anything yet, not mentioned the 'L' word though it hung heavy in the air around them whenever they were together. James kinda thought they didn't really need to. When they were together, they were in their own little bubble, away from a world that would still probably freak if they knew.

"Fine," Matt says, hands firmly on James' hips. "I cheated. Whatcha gonna do about it?"

James grinds down and whispers a filthy, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And they're kissing again, desperate, needy, hands are everywhere and it's never going to be enough, not ever -

The door flies open.

James is off Matt in a heartbeat, turning around to the door to see...

Wait.

Another Matt stands in the doorway, nose bloody, shirt torn, his eyes wide and filled with panic. "Jay, get away from him."

James turns, looking between the guy he'd just been making out with and the one that had just come through the door.

His first thought is that Christmas must've come early. Because there's no way two Matts could ever be a bad thing. But panic sets in pretty quick after. Sure he knew Matt wasn't exactly human, but he'd been naive to think he was the only one that could have his freaky Harry Potter powers.

The Matt he'd just been making out with is on his feet and he stands very still, staring through narrowed eyes at the guy with the torn shirt. "Don't listen to him," he says firmly, his hand snaking out and taking hold of James' wrist. He tugs him back towards him half a step and adds, "Don't believe a word he says."

Other Matt makes a frustrated noise and takes two steps into the room. "Please, Jay, believe me. Please."

James looks between the two of them and then asks, "The real one of you would know-"

Other Matt cuts him off before he can finish his sentence with a cry of, "No!" He waves his hand at his double and says, "He'll know things. About me, about you, about us. He'll know everything I do."

"It's part of what we can do, Jay," the Matt behind him says. "The longer we stay in a different skin, the more information we can take from the original." This Matt moves to stand beside him and squares his shoulders at his double. "Walk away and I won't hurt you."

The other Matt shakes his head and takes another step forwards. "I'm not leaving without Jay," he says.

"Very well," the Matt beside him says.

James has all but a second to turn towards the original before a knife plunges into his gut. He looks into Matt's eyes, confusion and hurt swirling through him. The knife twists.

The other Matt rushes forwards, eyes darting between his double and James and then goes for attack. His fists collides with his double's jaw, sending him reeling across the floor, and then other Matt's hands are cupping James' face, tender and desperate all rolled into one.

"Hey, hey," he says, "You're gonna be okay, I promise."

James feels woozy. He looks down to the knife protruding from his gut, blood slipping down his stomach and seeping into the waistband of his jeans. He touches the blood, his fingers sliding through it, and the room pitches around him a little. Matt's grip on his face tightens and he says, "Hey, hey, look at me, Jay. We're gonna get you to a doctor, don't worry."

James looks at him, and then his attention is drawn to the spot just behind Matt where his double is climbing back to his feet and tearing a hunk of skin off his bloody face. He keeps tearing and tearing until a woman's head is shaking long dark hair out but her body remains as Matt's. "I'm gonna kill you, you asshole," she spits, clawing at the skin of her neck.

Matt turns around and shields James from her view.

"Actually, honest to god kill you," she continues. "I'm gonna cut out your boyfriend's heart Mattie and I'm gonna make you watch and then I'm gonna kill you."

Matt launches himself at her, another punch to her jaw and he digs his nails into the skin at her neck and pulls. It tears through her left sleeve and a huge line of skin goes flying across the den. There's blood everywhere, and she howls in pain.

She lashes out, sinks her nails into Matt's arm and tears great strips out of him, spitting, "If that's how you're gonna play it," into his face. Then she leans forwards and bites a hunk of flesh out of his neck.

Matt tangles his fingers into her hair, pulls her away - there's a strip of his skin dangling from her mouth and she spits it to the floor, blood coating her teeth - and then slams her face into the wall.

Somewhere along the way, James finds himself on the floor, his hands on the wound in his stomach. Whilst the girl tries to collect herself, Matt's beside James, trying to ease him up onto the sofa. "Don't take it out, okay?" he says. "You do that you'll just start bleeding faster."

Before James can say anything in response, the girl is back on her feet and jumping onto Matt's back. Arms - half his, half hers - wrap around Matt's neck, choking him. His nails scrape through her skin, but he can't get purchase through the blood.

Matt's eyes roll in his head and his knees slam into the floor and she goes tumbling off him. He lays, groaning and hardly moving, as she climbs off him and makes her way to James.

She wraps her hand around the blade and tugs. It's freed from his gut with an oozing bubble of blood, and James' head swims. And then she's bringing the knife down again.

And again. And again.

Chest. Stomach. Arms.

And he's struggling to breathe. The room's all fuzzy at the edges and his heart is hammering in his chest painfully.

Matt's there then, hands clamping around her wrists and forcing the blade away from James and towards her instead. She fights against his weight, but he distracts her by leaning forwards and biting her ear clean off. She howls in pain and Matt takes the opportunity to force the knife up into her chest. She gasps at the contact and the blade sizzles as it touches her skin.

She goes slack and Matt shoves her to one side and then he's on James, hands tangling into his hair and lips pressing to the crown of his head. "Hey, hey, c'mon Jay, stay with me, please."

James struggles to keep his eyes on Matt. He makes an aborted attempt to raise his hand but finds he doesn't have enough energy for it. Matt notices and picks up his hand, tangling their fingers together and kissing his palm.

Matt's crying and that's how James knows it's game over. He thinks there's probably more blood on him than in him now and the world's dimming. "Tell my mom," he murmurs, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. "Tell-"

"Shh," Matt says. "I know. I will."

James tries very hard to focus his eyes on Matt's. "You're - you're a filthy cheater," he says, with a quirk of his lips.

Matt tries to smile through his tears. "What you gonna do about it?"

"Love you," James says, because it seems so stupid to have not said it out loud before now. So stupid.

Matt leans down and brings their lips together. "I love you," he says, breathing the words into James' mouth. "I love you. I love you."

He stays close, head bowed beside James' for a very long time. He doesn't need to look at him to know. Doesn't need to hear his heart stop beating, nor his lungs stop drawing air.

He just stays close, as close as he possible can, and cries.

***

Cas had driven them through the night to Utah, whilst Sam slept in the passenger side in the most uncomfortable position known to man. Before waking the younger Winchester to let him know they'd arrived at the necessary destination, Cas had given a short burst of Grace and healed what was likely a very stiff neck for Sam, and had then poked him until his eyes opened.

Sam pins him with a bemused look and says, "Erm, thanks Cas." He unfurls himself from the car and brushes his hands down his arms, then opens the back door to grab his suit jacket.

Cas follows him out of the car and looks around the parking lot outside the Tremonton Police Department.

The sky is a heavy slate grey and the clouds a roiling overhead like a storm is in the brewing. A few spots of rain drip on their heads as they make their way towards the station.

He keeps his eyes on the back of Sam's head and worries. If truth be told, since their brush with Sariel, Cas has realised how little attention he's been paying to his siblings. He should get back to heaven. An angel exacting heavenly retribution would need to be reported to whoever was in charge, and a visit back to the Host might help strengthen his weakening Grace just a little. But he doesn't want to leave Sam.

Not yet. Not when Dean keeps popping up at any given moment. No. It was best all round if Cas stayed put.

"Agents Barton and Queen," Sam says, flashing his badge, and Cas follows suit.

Police Officer Martin Boswell shakes hands their hands and says, "Feds, huh? One of your guys is already here." He tilts his head and beckons them through the back to his office. "Like I told him, seems strange to send the big guys down to investigate a murder-suicide but hey ho. Witness accounts all say the same thing - everyone thought Mr Kenny was out of town on business but his and the vic's were the only finger prints found in the house."

Cas doesn't miss the look Sam throws him, and it's only once he takes a further step towards Boswell's office that he catches the subtle hint of sulphur.

They don't say anything, just follow inside Boswell's office, where Dean is sitting with his feet up on the desk flicking through paperwork. He drops his feet back to the floor and stands up looking pretty sheepish. "Apologies Officer," he says. "Bad habits and all that."

Boswell snorts and waves his hand about. "I take it you fellas all know one another."

"Obviously," Sam says, taking the files out of Dean's hands and sitting at the desk without further comment.

Boswell looks between the three of them and Cas shakes his head and offers, "Agent Barton's wife slept with our colleague. It was awkward for all involved."

Boswell's eyebrows climbs so high up his forehead they're in danger of being lost to his hairline. Cas hopes he's said something acceptable to accommodate the awkwardness between the Winchesters.

Dean chokes beside him and claps Cas on the shoulder. "Don't hold back, Cas," he says through laughter. "Tell the poor man everything why don't you."

Cas turns to Dean and narrows his eyes. He takes several seconds before asking, "Sarcasm?"

"Yeah," Dean says, giving Cas' shoulder a little squeeze. Then he turns to Boswell who's still looking a little alarmed and says, "It was nearly a decade ago, but Barton can hold a grudge like nobodies business." He looks over his shoulder to Sam, who's still resolutely studying the files. "But we're all professionals here. We're gonna investigate the murders, see if they fit our profile and then we'll get outta your hair, Officer."

Boswell gives them all one final look of mild confusion before leaving the office and snapping the door shut behind him.

Dean stifles a little laugh and then drops back down into his seat beside Sam. He whacks his brother in the chest and says, "Heya Sammy, how you doing?"

Sam remains stock still, and clutches the papers a little tighter.

Unfazed by Sam's lack of interest, Dean tilts his head back towards Cas and says, "He been like this since-"

"You died?" Cas asks bluntly. The paperwork in Sam's hands shakes.

Dean cocks his mouth into a lopsided grin. "Well, when you put it like that..."

"We're just here to do our job, Dean," Sam spits, throwing the papers down on the table. "Seems we were mistaken to think this had anything to do with the supernatural."

He gets to his feet and storms towards the door and is only pulled up when Dean says, "Well then little brother, you would be well and truly wrong."

Dean riffles through the paperwork and pulls out a single picture of two skeletons. "Aside from the fact the latest murder was clearly committed by a shifter - I already checked and already ganked, fyi - locals dug these up near the crime scene." He holds the picture out and waves it about, waiting for someone to take it. But Sam is resolutely trying to ignore the fact his brother is even there, so Cas steps forwards and relieves Dean of the photograph.

"Why are these of any consequence if you've already apprehended the shifter responsible?" Cas asks.

Dean leans forwards and taps one side of the picture. "This one has both male and female bones making up their skeleton," Dean tells him, meeting his eye and grinning like a kid that just got told Christmas came early. "And this one," he taps the other side, "has DNA that matches someone who's still very much alive and well in town."  
Sam heaves a sigh and scrubs his hands down his face. "Fine," he says. "Let's go talk to him."

***

Matt wakes up dripping in cold sweat with an itch under his skin he can't quite figure out the source of. His sleep had been plagued with nightmares of James again, of the blood on his hands.

It'd been seven years. Seven long years and Matt had started to trick himself that it was never coming back to haunt him. Ha. What a joke.

His telly is still on, muted but broadcasting the morning news. Annie Lambert's face was up on the screen and a scroll was going along at the bottom to inform him that Federal Investigators had arrived in Tremonton regarding the murder-suicide and the discovery of two skeletons at the murder scene.

Matt ran his fingers through his sweat-damp hair and breathed heavily.

Seven years since he'd buried James deep in the ground. Seven years since he buried his psycho sister beside him. Seven years since he'd ripped his skin off and assumed James' face, thoughts and life. Seven years and _now_ another Shifter's shown up in town and killing indiscriminately.

He heaves himself out of bed and pulls yesterdays t-shirt over his head glancing over at the mirror handing on the wall. Matt stares in, and James looks back.

They sigh and there's sadness in the Mirror-James' eyes. "Morning Jay," Matt whispers to himself as he turns away.

It was fucked up what he did. He shouldn't have and he knows it. But he couldn't let James die. He couldn't just let his lifeless body be found by the authorities, or his parents, or his little brother.

So he'd swallowed down bile and tears and he'd loaded the two bodies up in the back of James' truck, along with his shed skin and driven out to the woods. He'd dug down deep in a remote area and buried the bodies, then he'd gone back to James' house, showered away the blood and the dirt and climbed into the his bed - the bed they'd had their first time in - and sobbed into pillows that smelt like Jay.

He'd been off for days. His head was a mess of his own thoughts and James'. Memories of a childhood that wasn't his own crowded him at every turn. His grades had suffered, he could barely sleep for the nightmares and everyone from James' parents to teachers just put it down to him missing his best friend that had upped and left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.

There's a soft knock on the door and Matt says, "Come'n," through a yawn.

In walks Daniel, James' little brother that's no longer quite so little. Matt knows if James were really here he'd be stupidly proud of the genius his kid brother had grown in to. Matt gives him an affectionate smile.

If it hadn't been for Dan seven years ago, he would've lost himself to madness a long time ago. He was only ten, just a little kid, but he'd pulled Matt back from the brink. He'd stuck to him like glue and proudly declared that he'd be his best friend from now on cause you can't get away from family.

"You realise it's nearly ten right?" he asks. School holidays means Dan's around the house all day long, giving Matt crap about anything and everything.

Matt runs his fingers through his hair and looks over at the clock on his bedside. 0957. "And?" he asks through another yawn. "Not due at work 'til ten thirty."

Dan rolls his eyes really hard and says, "Yeah, you're a little bitch."

Matt nods, as though in agreement with the statement. "Anything else?"

"Uh," Daniel pauses and looks back over at the door, then he pushes it shut and hisses. "Dude there are Feds here. They wanna talk to you."

Matt's eyes bug. "Feds?"

"Is this about all that gay porn you've been downloading?" Daniel asks. "It is, isn't it? You're gonna be one of those people that gets sent to jail for illegal downloads, and it'll be for gay porn."

Matt groans into his hands. "How do you even know about that?"

"Dude, I've known you were flamingly gay ever since you started hanging out with that Matt kid ages ago. I know, I know, don't tell mom and dad cause you're not ready for them to have a Big Gay Freak Out but-"

"It was rhetorical, Dan," he hisses. "We'll talk about the fact you've been snooping through my shit another time."

"Whatever, Jay," Daniel says, heading back for the door. "But don't think I won't tell your new cell mate that you like it up the-"

"Okay!" Matt shouts storming across the bedroom and forcibly removing Daniel from the room. "Tell them I'll be down in a sec."

"Oh hell no, you are not gonna sneak out your bedroom window and leave me to deal with three, six foot dudes that could beat the shit out of me."

Matt drags on some jeans and fastens up his belt. "I am gonna kill you, you little asshole."

"Ew gross," Daniel says, "I'm your brother."

"That was not a gay joke, Dan!"

Daniel takes that moment to start running down the hallway and Matt follows. "I swear to god you little shit!" They sprint down the stairs and Matt's pulled up short by three guys in suits.

He knows instantly that they're not really FBI agents - who the hell even sends three agents to investigate a small town murder anyway? - and that just leaves hunters. He looks over the three of them and winces. Fuck. Oh God please tell him they aren't who he thinks they are.

"Uh, hi," he offers and in unison, the three guys all flash badges off - though the dark haired one looks like he's having trouble.

"Agents Barnes, Barton and Queen," the middle one says. If Matt wasn't suddenly, and quietly, losing his shit, he'd think this guy was the hottest thing he'd ever seen; pretty green eyes, and a mouth that looks like it was made to be kissed? Matt would switch sides to hunter so damn fast if it meant making out with him.

"You James Foster?" the tallest one asks. And he's hot too. All broad chest and chiselled jaw and, Jesus Christ, what was this? America's Next Top Hunter?

"Yeah," Matt says, suddenly feeling itchy in his skin.

Green Eyes looks at Dan and says, "Can you give us a minute?"

"Whatever," he says, then turns back towards Matt. "Want me to call work for you?"

"Please." And then Dan's heading out towards the kitchen and Matt's left alone with the three hunters.

"You don't need to feel uncomfortable," says Dark Hair. "We only want to ask a few questions."

Matt snorts. Dark Hair and Green Eyes have sat down on either end of the sofa and Chiselled Jaw leans against the mantelpiece, looking all tall and brooding and throwing furtive glances at the green eyed one. "Let's not kid ourselves here," Matt says. He looks over his shoulder to the kitchen and then back at the three guys. "We all know why you're really here, so just get on with it."

"Okay then," Green Eyes says. "So what happened? You and your sibling came to town and James Foster what? Discovered what you were? Killed your sister? Brother? And you decided James had a nice comfortable life so you killed him and took his place? That how it worked?"

Matt sinks back into the arm chair. His skin itches more than it has done in years. He's not shed in at least twelve months and he wants to rip off this layer, go back to who he was before. He misses looking in a mirror and seeing his olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Misses being the boy that James had fallen in love with. Now he looks in the mirror and just sees James. "Sounds like you've already made up your minds," he spits vehemently. "So just get on with it. If you're who I think you are then it's not like you're gonna care anyway. Shoot first and don't ask questions later. Isn't that the Winchester motto?"

Chiselled Jaw's eyes bug, and Dark Hair coughs. Then Green Eyes stands up, pulls the gun out of his belt and his eyes flood black.

Holy shit. _Demon_?

"How do you know-"

"Oh come on. You guys are the things my sister told me horror stories about." He cocks his head at the demon and says, "So you've gotta be the one that clawed his way outta hell right? And you," he looks at Chiselled Jaw, "I'm guessing you've gotta be the brother that killed Lucifer. Which would make you," he looks at Dark Hair, "the latest addition to the family: the fallen angel. Am I right?"

Dark Hair and Chiselled jaw exchange sharp glances, and then the demon-Winchester clicks the safety on his handgun. In a flash, Dark Hair is up beside him, and placing a warning hand on his wrist. "Dean," he says, "not here."

Matt snorts again. "So you do plan on killing me, then?"

Green Eyes says, "Yes," just as Chiselled Jaw says, "No."

"Nice mixed signals you're giving off there guys," Matt says with a lot more confidence than he feels.

"Sit down," Chiselled Jaw hisses at the demon brother.

Demon Green Eyes throws an ugly look up at Chiselled Jaw before throwing himself down on the sofa once more. "Be my guest, Samantha."

Chiselled Jaw closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He finally sits down in the spare arm chair and says, "Tell us what happened to James."

"I'd rather not relive the worst night of my life to three guys that wanna shoot me full of silver thanks."

"Look," says Chiselled Jaw, shuffling forwards in his seat a bit. "Ignore him," he nods to the demon brother, "and believe me. We won't hurt you unless you give us a reason to."

"Comforting."

"Help me out here?" Chiselled Jaw says, looking over at Blue Eyes, who stands up and walks over to stand right in front of Matt.

He bends down, gets eye to eye, then squints. "If you'd prefer, I can just read your mind," he says.

Matt leans back saying, "Jeez dude, personal space?" At this, the demon Winchester starts howling with laughter. Matt's not sure what's so funny.

Blue Eyes straightens up and takes a step backwards, saying, "My apologies."

Was this guy for real? "Fine," Matt says, fisting his fingers into his hair and pulling. He can feel his skin shifting and regardless of what happens now today, he will have to shed tonight. "Just please, not here. I don't want Dan to hear."

***

They wind up heading out to a den down the end of the kid's long back yard. It's looking a little dilapidated, and there are trees and bushes that've grown up around it, but it was sturdily made and they head inside to it's still-comfortable interior. There's a stale smell about it, that's also a tiny bit damp.

Sam looks around the small building with fondness, knowing he would've loved a place like this growing up, if only to get the hell away from Dad when he was getting too much. He casts a sideways glance to Dean and knows he probably would've loved it too.

"I've not been back here much," the kid says, touching his hand to the top of the telly. He waves a hand around the room. "My -" he stops himself. " _James'_ dad built it for him and Dan when they were kids. I'd sneak over, hang out with James. We'd play Call of Duty until we passed out. His parents didn't stop us, even when we were due at school the next day. Harmless fun."

"So you and James were friends then?" Cas asks him and the kid nods.

"Yeah. Best friends. I-" he coughs and swings his arms back and forth. "He knew."

"About?" Sam encourages.

"The whole Shifter thing. I thought he was gonna freak out, y'know. And my sister she'd always go on and on about how humans couldn't be trusted and how they'd turn into hunters once they found out what you really were. Crock of bullshit. Jay loved it. He'd get me to shift into older dudes from the neighbourhood so I could buy us beer." He shakes his head. "Like I said. It was harmless. And then I had to go and tell him I liked him as a bit more than a friend."

Dean's eyes bug, flash black, recede. "You what?"

"He was more than a friend to me," the kid says really slowly.

Dean bristles and says, "So what? James Foster rejected your advances and _then_ you killed him?"

"Are you gone in the head or something? Don't answer that. Course you are. You're a god damned demon." The kid flounces across the room and kicks at one of the wooden chairs. "He didn't freak out about that either. It takes a lot to phase James, and take it from someone that knows."

The kid drops into the chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "He might not've been into it right away, but that didn't put him off. I knew he'd always been into girls, hell I'd even helped him hook up with Laura Waters. But when he found out he just," the kid shrugs, "he kissed me. It was incredible. James he got really into it after that. He didn't have a freak out about his sexuality. He didn't freak out about touching another guy's dick. He just took it all in stride and it was just. It was perfect. We were best friends and I fell in love with my best friend."

Sam can hear Dean shuffling from foot to foot just outside his peripheral vision, so Sam keeps his eyes trained pointedly on the kid. He felt incredibly sorry for him, because he knows what it's like watching someone you love die. Sam knows that all too well.

He doesn't want to ask about what happened next, but he knows he has too. "So what happened? How'd he die?"

"Sister had her suspicions. One day she attacked me, chained me up in the trunk of her car and left me. When I finally got free I came here to see myself making out with James. It was so fucked up. She'd shifted into me and then she went nuts and stabbed him. Thought he'd be okay if I fought her but she..." He trails off and looks around the room.

His eyes are haunted, like he can still see with vivid clarity exactly what had happened. "She knocked me to one side and went back to Jay. Stabbed him again. And again and again and again and she couldn't stop until I jumped her and forced the blade onto her instead. By that point it was too late. He'd lost so much blood."

"You know it's pretty messed up that you shifted into your dead-boyfriend's life, right?" Dean asks.

"Trust me, I know," the kid says, looking down at his hands. He looks up, his eyes sliding from Cas, to Dean and finally settling on Sam. "I'm Matt."

Sam nods and says, "So Matt, you know anything about the Shifter that came to town?"

Matt shakes his head and says, "I swear it wasn't me. I swear."

"Cool your jets kid," Dean says. "We're well aware."

"Dean here has already taken down the other shifter," Cas says.

Sam rounds off by says, "So you're off the hook. We just wanted to know what happened to James."

Matt nods. "Look, the whole reason why I did this," he waves down at his body, "was so the Fosters didn't have to lose a kid. It would've ruined them. Instead they've got to watch their son grow up. See him graduate high school, start taking college classes, get a job. And it means Dan didn't lose a brother. I have James' memories. Got a whole host of his emotions and his feelings. God to feel the love that his parents have for him... Like I said. I know it's about a thousand shades of messed up, but I kept him alive in the only way I knew how."

Sam holds a hand out and says, "You ever have any problems with anything, give us a call."

Beside him, Dean snorts in an undignified way. "Are you kidding me? He's taken over the kids whole life, we can't just _leave_ him to do whatever the hell he wants. What the hell kinda hunter are you, Sammy?"

Sam turns to Dean and spits, "The kind that doesn't rush head long into stupid ass decisions that wind up getting me killed and turned into a god damned demon."

It feels good to say it, even though he instantly regrets it, and just like that Dean's disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Cas throws him a look that's coupled with pursed lips and Sam just knows. He knows he fucked up, but he's too proud to admit it. "It's his own damn problem," he says sharply, and then turns back to Matt before Cas can make any kind of comment. "Here," he throws the kid a business card, "like I said if you need us, just call. Don't go killing anyone or we really will hunt you."

"Gee, thanks mister," Matt says snarkily, but he still takes the business card and still stuffs it in his jeans pocket all the same.

***

Sam gives him one final nod and heads out of the den. He can hear Cas' footsteps following behind but he doesn't look at the angel, choosing instead to walk up the yard, around the house and out the front to the Impala in silence.

Cas spends the afternoon trying to talk to Sam about Dean and failing miserably every time he opens his mouth. For all the problems that go hand in hand with the fact Dean's now a demon, for what it's worth he does appear to be _trying_ and Cas is prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt; if for no other reason than the fact it's _Dean_.

But Sam's having none of it. He's pissed and he's conflicted and Cas doesn't need to read his mind to know either of those things. Sam's happy his brother's not dead, Cas knows that and he's sure Dean does too, but he can't seem to get past the demon thing and Cas figures that's quite the turn of events considering where they started. It's not like Sam hasn't been _friendly_ with demons before, and as an angel Cas should want to smite Dean on sight - part of him tends to want to - but he squashes it down. Dean needs to know they care if they ever hope to convince him to let them cure him, and Sam running his mouth out of frustration for his brother's poor judgement is never going to quite cut it.

It's nightfall when Cas attempts to talk again. He can see Sam brace his shoulders for a fight, or to put down Cas' impassioned pleas for them to just give Dean the benefit of the doubt, but Cas doesn't have it in him any more to try. Sam will come round eventually, he knows, he just needs to be given time. "Would you like me to get dinner?" he asks instead, and he watches Sam's shoulders relax.

"Sure," Sam says. "What were you thinking?"

Cas shrugs. "It's not really up to me. You're the one that needs food to survive. Unfortunately for me, whatever we purchase will taste horrible all the same."

Cas places a call to the local Chinese delivery five minutes later and then settles down on one of the double beds in the motel, flicking on the TV. Sam remains hunched over the table, tapping away at his computer and they lapse into silence with just the sound of Empire Strikes Back to accompany them.

There's a knock on the door. Sam looks up, startled and says, "There's no way that's them already." He picks his gun up from the desk and makes his way over to the door and opens it as far as the chain will allow.

"For the love of God, Samantha, how long does it take to answer a damn door?" Dean's unmistakeable voice hisses through the gap. "Hurry along would you? People are gonna start noticing."

Cas shudders to think _what_ they might start to notice. "How did you even find us?" Sam whispers back. He seems to catch sight of something and carries on with, "For crying out loud what the hell is wrong with you? Wait, don't answer that," and then he's closing the door, sliding across the chain and opening the door as wide as possible.

Dean strides into the room. His eyes are fully black and slung over his shoulder is an unmoving body. He heads straight for the bed Cas is sat on and drops the guy down beside him. "Hey Cas," he says with a smile, "meet our new friend."

Cas scrambles off the bed and looks between Dean and the unmoving body. Dean's knuckles are bloody and there's a rip to his shirt sleeve, but aside from that he looks just fine. The guy on the bed however has a bloody nose and a further trickle of blood dripping from his hairline. There are burn marks across his arms and neck and silver chains wrapped around his ankles and wrists. His hands and the front of his shirt are covered in blood. Too much to be his own.

"What?" Dean asks, when Cas throws him an exasperated look. "He's still alive." He gives an over exaggerated shrug and adds, "I mean sure, his friend's not but..."

Sam slams the door shut and says, "What did you do? I swear to God if that's Matt-"

"Whoever this guy is, I caught him fiddling with someone's entrails so no, Sammy, even if it _is_ earlier's loverboy, we're gonna be having a chat." Then he turns to Cas and says, "Wake him up."

Cas bristles. That part of him that's still undeniable _Angel_ doesn't like getting given orders by a demon, almost full scale revolts at the mere idea of it, but he calms himself and does as Dean asks. A two finger touch to the forehead and the guy is sitting bolt upright and wide awake.

His eyes fall on Dean first and he shuffles backwards trying to get away from him. Then he sees Sam and finally, Cas, and he swears loudly under his breath.

"Hi again," Dean says.

The guy pins Dean with a disgusted look and says, "So you're the asshole that killed Johanna."

"Killed your other friend too," Dean says.

Sam sighs in exasperation and drags Dean away with a tight grip on his upper arm. "Christ Dean, is this what you're gonna do now? Just haul ass around the country and kill monsters indiscriminately? I mean I dunno if you've noticed lately, but you're kinda falling into the category of the thing we hunt."

Black eyes, tick in his jaw and Cas is sure Dean's about to blow. Instead there's a flicker, humanity inches back to the front and when Dean opens his mouth to speak, his voice comes out all kinds of vulnerable. "You think I want this?" he asks in little more than a whisper. "You think I'm _happy_ , Sammy? I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation, same as we always have. And right now I'm gonna do my job. And my job is putting down a scumbag like this guy, that gets off on raping women and slaughtering them afterwards."

They hold eye contact, just long enough for a flicker of understanding to pass between them and then Sam's turning towards the chained up shifter and saying, "If you think my brother's bad, you're gonna have a riot with me."

Cas shouldn't be relieved by this. He shouldn't find it comforting that Sam and Dean have found common ground over torturing and murdering a monster. But right now he'll take it. It really is about making the best of a bad situation after all.

***

Matt flops face down onto the bed, feeling drained from the whole damn day. Winchesters and work, what a delightful combination. He drags the pillow forwards and buries his face into it wanting to just black out right now.

There's a knock on the door and he groans out a, "Come in," even though he has a face full of pillow.

He turns round to see Dan in the doorway. "You left for work before I could ask what the Feds wanted," he says, walking into the room and sitting down in the computer chair. He spins back and forth on it a couple of times and hooks Matt with a look. "Take it they're not arresting you for the gay porn then?"

"Nope," Matt says, pushing off the bed and sitting up.

"You gonna talk about it?"

Matt shrugs. "They thought they found some of my DNA at the Annie Lambert crime scene."

Dan's eyes pop. " _How?_ "

"Beats me dude," Matt says. "They took swabs, sent them off for analysis and said they'd get back to me. Didn't sound too convinced that it was anything to worry about. Said it was more likely they were just gonna rule me out as a suspect."

"Shit man, that's hardcore."

"Did you tell mom and dad?"

Dan shakes his head. "Thought I'd leave it to you."

"S'nothing to worry about," Matt says though he doesn't quite feel it.

"Right?"

"Right."

"You'd tell me, right?" Dan asks. "No matter what it was, you'd tell me the truth about shit like this, wouldn't you?"

Matt smiles, trying to make it reach his eyes. He's not sure how successful he is. "Course I would. You're my best friend, right?"

"Right." Dan pushes out of the chair and adds, "You should tell mom and dad about the gay thing. They'd be cool with it."

Matt looks up through his hair and asks, "You think?"

"Yup," he says, stretches and yawns. "Anyway, I'm gonna turn in for the night." He leaves, closing the door behind him and Matt flops back on the bed, pulls a pillow over his head and passes out straight away.

He wakes up, disorientated and fighting with his pillow, to the sound of footsteps. "Christ, Dan," he says, squinting through his sleep-gunk coated eyes at his little brother standing right beside his bed.

He yawns and scrubs at his eyes. He's still in his day clothes and he glances at the clock on his bedside table. 0321, joy.

"The hell you doing in here man?" he asks. Dan doesn't reply, just stands beside the bed with his glassy eyes reflecting the moonlight that filters through the window. "You're sleep walking again? God help me. Like that wasn't creepy when you were a kid." He sighs and pushes into upright, the bed springs creaking under his weight. He knows better than to touch Dan when he's sleep walking, but he can hardly leave him standing all night, so he goes for the gentle hand on his brother's t-shirted lower back in the hope that it's not threatening enough to freak Dan out.

Dan turns his head sharply and Matt can hear bones pop and his eyes are angry, vehemently so and he says, "You killed her." Matt scrambles back across his bed only to bump into something solid.

He turns and another Daniel is behind him with that same wide eyed, violent look. "You killed her," the second Daniel says.

Matt's heart is racing and he throws himself down the end of the bed and off it. He tries to make his way to the door, only for it to open and another Daniel stand in the way. He also says, "You killed her," and Matt is so frightened he's about ready to piss his pants.

He's trapped, so he does the only thing he can think of and swings a punch at his little brother's face. But Dan Three is too quick and his hand catches Matt's fist. "You killed her," he says again and squeezes. Matt can feel bones break and he gasps out in pain.

Behind him, he hears tearing flesh and he glances over his shoulder to see one of the Daniel's morphing into _her_.

She unfolds in a mess of black hair and much longer limbs than before. She's like a grotesque butterfly ripping free of her cocoon. And then she's standing there. His dead sister. "You killed me," Maria says, twisting her mouth wide. "You killed me, you killed me, you killed me."

The Dan-Double has his arm twisted up behind his back and he's forced to watch her standing there, all wide eyed and breathing and something snaps inside Matt. Whatever threads of sanity he'd been able to cling to through the last seven years weaken and fly apart at their seams. He's spiralling, down down down.

It's only when he hears a yawn and a, "Jay, the hell's going on," coming from the doorway that he's pulled back to his senses.

Dan - the real one - stands in his Batman pyjama bottoms, his hair all tousled and sleep still thick in his eyes.

The two fake Dan's and the fake Maria all turn to look at him, just as he blinks the sleep right out of his eyes and focuses on the sight before him. He doesn't move. Sure he blinks a couple times, but he doesn't move.

His eyes slide over his doubles, to Maria, to Matt. "The f-" he says, but can't quite finish the word because the Dan-Double that's not holding Matt back lunges forwards.

Matt screams, "Dan RUN!" and the kid doesn't need telling twice.

His long legs carry him down the hall and his double follows after.

There's banging, crashing and a yelp of pain, and the worst part about them being the same person is that Matt can't tell which is his brother and which is not.

A Daniel comes back into the room with blood coating his teeth and a copy of him slung over his shoulder. "What should we do with him?" he asks.

"Bring him," says Maria. "Bring them both."

A dirty sock is stuffed into Matt's mouth and a pillow case is tugged over his head then he's lifted up and carried and he has no idea how long for.

***

"Think you can prod me with your special knives and I'll squeal?" the shifter asks. With a few well placed cuts there are large piece of his skin pulled away and he's bled through his clothes and the bed sheets too. "You're all a joke, you get that right? An angel, a demon and a hunter walk into a bar-"

Dean's fist collides with the shifter's face. "Funny man," he says. "Wanna hear one of my jokes? It goes: carry on like that and I'm gonna rip out your tongue."

The shifter turns his doe eyes on Dean and says, "You're not quite delivering the punchline right."

For that, Dean's fist collides with his jaw again and there's the unmistakeable crunch of bone breaking.

Sam winces only slightly at the sound.

"Now the thing is, Sam here," Dean tilts his head towards him and Sam nods, "he's only human. He'll get tired, need to take a leak, maybe even have to break to finish off his Chinese food. Kids got a stomach of steel, ain't nothing gonna make him yack, even if I throw little pieces of you at him, ain't that right, Sammy?"

"That's right, Dean." Sam's not felt a flush of rage quite like this in a long, long time. The shifter had said all kinds of things. Disgusting things that made his blood boil. And Sam may try to keep a level head with monsters, just do the job, quick in, quick out and nothing too stomach churning. But the way this guy had giggled over pulling out someone's entrails...

"But me?" Dean asks. "Funny thing about being a demon is that aside from the eternal damnation aspect of it all, you do get a few perks. Like, I can teleport. Raise the dead. I don't even need to sleep. I can poke you and prod you, flay little pieces off you. I'll even remove all the bits that stick out in such a way that they won't kill you but they sure as hell are gonna hurt. And I won't ever have to let up. Choice is yours kiddo; you can tell us what we wanna know or you can die screaming."

The shifter looks from Dean to Sam and spits, "Eat me."

"Fair enough," Dean says, and Sam has barely a second to realise what's going on before Dean's bending down and sinking his teeth into the shifters throat.

He tears a great hunk away, and blood sprays up the wall from the shifter's jugular.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, lunging across the bed towards his brother. Fortunately Cas gets there first, wraps an arm straight around Dean's chest and hauls him backwards across to the kitchenette. Once held by Cas, Dean goes completely still and doesn't fight it. He chews a couple of times on the hunk of skin in his mouth then spits it out on the floor. He's got blood smeared all over his face, coating his tongue, splashed all down his front. His eyes are full black and there's an evil smile playing on his lips.

The shifter's gasping for breath, struggling against the silver chains and Sam's sure he'd be screaming if his throat hadn't been half opened by his brother's teeth.

Holy shit.

Sam's bending over the shifter - pointedly ignoring the way Cas is muttering under his breath in Dean's ear - and hissing, "Tell me where your nest is. Tell me where I can find them and I swear I'll just make it quick. You won't suffer, you'll just die. Tell me what I wanna know."

The shifter gives off a death rattle. His breathing is so heavy and so laboured Sam can barely hear himself think. "Shack," he wheezes. "Near cemetery. Won't find them."

"Why?" barks Sam. He presses a hand across what's left of the shifter's throat in an attempt to hold him together.

"Want - find - brother."

The shifter's eyes roll in the back of his head and he starts to seize. His arms and legs are rigid and Sam knows that's it, this guy ain't giving them anything more.

He picks up the silver knife and plunges it into the shifter's heart. The body goes slack instantly.

"He give us anything?" Dean asks through the blood in his mouth.

"No thanks to you," Sam spits.

Dean riles and looks like he's readying to smack Sam in the jaw as well, but Cas flings an arm out across his chest and holds him back.

"We need to get to the cemetery out on the east side of town," Sam says, eyeing Dean wearily.

"Okay," Dean says, taking a step away from Cas.

"Was there anything else?" the angel asks and Sam nods.

"Someone should check on Matt. Think he's more involved than he admitted earlier."

Dean straightens his shirt and says, "Fine, I'll head to the cem-"

"No," Sam says. "If you wanna work together, we do this my way. Me and Cas'll go to the cemetery, and you can go check on Matt." Sam sneers, feels a viscous bubble burst out of him. "After all, one of the perks of being a demon means you get to teleport everywhere, right?"

Dean's eyes flicker black, and he sneers like an animal before he disappears.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," Cas says, and Sam knows he's right. But right now he doesn't have it in him to care.

***

Sam breaks the speed limit ploughing through the dark streets to get to the cemetery. But it's nearly 3am and there's not a soul about.

They pull up a short way away and Cas watches Sam load silver bullets into his gun. "Sure you don't want anything?" he asks, looking over at Cas with concern. Cas shakes his head and drops his angel blade from his sleeve.

"I'll be fine," he tells him, and spins the blade in his hand. He doesn't say anything of it, but there's a pool of warmth in his belly at hearing Sam's concern for his well being. He offers up a grin as Sam slams down the trunk.

"Jesus Sammy, treat her with a bit more respect than that, would you?"

Dean's voice makes Sam jump. Cas turns to look at him and frowns.

He's still a mess. He's covered in shifter blood, as well as his own. He has his hands in his jeans pockets and his black eyes firmly in place. The Mark of Cain isn't burning as brightly as it had been and Cas wonders why. Perhaps it's been some time since Dean held it?

Then his eyes flicker to that spot on his chest. Where a dark, dried patch of blood has stained his shirt. The angel blade wound is still bleeding, still festering, still unhealing, and Cas sends up a silent curse to Metatron, and to Crowley as well.

Sam eyes Dean wearily and asks with a heavy sigh, "What did you do to Matt?"

"Nothing!" Dean asks, holding his hands up. "Kid was already gone by the time I got there. Place stank like shifter - not just him - and the younger brother was gone too. They either ran away or someone took 'em. And given the state of the house, it's likely the latter is what happened."

Cas feels his eyes narrow and struggles to find the truth in Dean's words. There's that knee-jerk reaction again, to distrust anything with black eyes...

Sam snaps his gun ready and turns to Dean. "Whatever," he says. "Are you coming?"

Dean doesn't reply, just storms off ahead and into the cemetery.

Sam sighs and looks at Cas. "Would it kill him to give an answer for once?"

"I'm not entirely sure your brother can die any longer," Cas tells him, tilting his head to one side.

"I didn't... never mind."

Feeling perplexed at Sam's frustration, Cas follows behind the Winchesters into the cemetery. There's a definite hint of shifter in the air that Dean can clearly smell and appears to be following. Cas nods to Sam that he should follow Dean and the pair of them ease through the graves, keeping their weapons held aloft. Dean is the only one unarmed, but Cas is unsurprised, nor does it worry him too much. Even as a human, Dean could hold his own in a fight without a weapon. As a demon, having seen him just rip a man's throat out with his teeth, Cas would worry more about the shifter on the other end of Dean's wrath.

"Well well well," says a female voice. The three of them turn as one to their left to see a tall, Hispanic woman sitting perched on a headstone. She's young, and very beautiful. Behind her is another tombstone overlooked by a stone angel in prayer, and from this angle, its wings seem like they're protruding from her shoulders. "Have I been graced with the presence of the Winchesters?"

"What did you do to Matt?" Dean asks.

"You sure it was me?" she asks. And then there's another four of her, appearing from the shadows, making a ring around Cas, Sam and Dean.

The one nearest Sam says, "Because it might've been me."

"Maybe me?" says the one just behind Cas.

Dean looks around them all, studying each of them and then points to the one behind Cas. "Definitely not you. Your stench was nowhere near the room." Then he flicks his wrist and she goes spinning through the air. She slams into a grave and it cracks against her weight. She doesn't move.

The first one hops off the headstone she was sat on and marches towards Dean, but Sam fires his gun - a warning shot - at her feet and she flinches before coming to a stop. The other three of her pace around them.

Dean nods at his brother and says, "Yeah, definitely sure it was you, sweetheart."

"Who do you think you are?" she hisses. "Don't involve yourself in my family's business. It has nothing to do with you."

"See that's where you're wrong," Sam says. "At least four people-"

"Six," Dean corrects. "You're not counting the two that got murdered by the thing we caught earlier."

The woman's eyes bug wide in her head. "What have you done to my sons?"

Dean grins viciously. "What we do best."

At that, the woman closest to Sam lunges for him. He's raised his gun and squeezed the trigger before anyone else can think to react. She's struck square in the chest by the silver bullet and she looks down at the blood pouring from the wound, staining her dress, before crumpling to her knees.

The rest all scream in anguish as one. And then they attack.

The one nearest Cas leaps for him, wraps her arms around his neck and Cas sorely misses his wings, wishes more than anything he could heave their weight to his advantage and send her flying through the air. She has a dagger from somewhere which makes contact with his neck and Cas winces, feels an all to human stab of pain, and blood pours from his neck. She jeers triumphantly, before it's choked. Her body struggles against Cas', her weight almost knocking him to the floor. She's gasping for air, clawing at his tan trench coat. She tumbles off him and Cas manages to lift his head up to see Dean with black eyes and a hand raised in his direction.

He's too focused on saving Cas' ass that he doesn't see the shifter striding towards him.

Cas highly doubts that she'd be able to do too much damage. He hadn't been lying earlier when he'd said he wasn't entirely sure if Dean was possible to die or not.

Cas throws his angel blade and it spins in a great arc before slamming into the chest of the shifter behind Dean.

Only the original remains. She leans heavily against a nearby tombstone, and screams. "My babies," she screams.

"Where's Matt?" Sam asks, wiping blood from his face. "Why'd you take him and his brother?"

"His brother?!" the woman shouts. "These were his brothers and his sisters and you've slaughtered them."

Dean seems to grow impatient, snatches the gun from Sam's hand and points it at the shifter. "Start talking or I start shooting."

"Dean," Sam says warningly, but Dean ignores him.

Cas knows this is a god awful idea. Knows that if Dean's allowed to start shooting, there's very little chance they'll find Matt or his brother before the sun comes up.

"What's to say the little bastards are still alive?" she hisses.

"He's your son," Dean says. "Considering how you're wailing over us killing your babies, something tells me you don't want him dead too."

"You don't know what he did."

"Killed his sister right?" Sam asks. "Let me guess, the pair of them ran away from home?"

"Something like that," she says. "Oh for God's sake. Just get on with it already."

Dean shoots out her leg. She screams ant hits the grass. The wound sizzles and steams. "There's a cabin," she says. "For the caretaker. They're there."

"Cas, go with Sammy," Dean says, holding the gun back out to Sam. Cas bends down beside one of the dead shifters and tugs his angel blade from her chest cavity.

"Are you sure?" Cas asks Dean as he walks past him.

"Go with Sam," he says with a firm nod.

Cas doesn't want to leave Dean with the shifter. With a sense of dread at what they may come back to, Cas walks across the graveyard to Sam and says, "This way."

***

When they finally locate the cabin, Cas grabs Sam's arm to hold him back. "There are more shifters in there," Cas tells him. "At least three."

"One of them Matt?" Sam asks.

Cas squints at the cabin and then nods his confirmation.

Sam checks his ammo, two bullets left. Can't miss.

Cas waves his hand over the door handle, there's an audible click, and then the door opens inwards.

The cabin consists of one room with a desk in the middle and maps taped to the walls. Matt's brother is tied up to a wooden chair with a wad of cloth stuffed in his mouth. His eyes are fixed on Matt.

Matt's restrained by a rope thrown over a ceiling beam. He has a gag tied around his mouth, his shirt has been cut off, as have large strips of his skin. Half the flesh of his face has been pulled back, so he's half James and half his original skin.

He takes a split second to register Sam and Cas and then he's throwing his knife towards Sam. Cas jumps into its path, and the blade sinks deep into his shoulder. He grunts in pain and staggers into Sam a little.

Sam takes the opportunity of being shielded by Cas to raise his gun and fire off a silver bullet straight in between the shifter's eyes.

Through his gag, Dan starts screaming.

The other shifter, a blonde man with a pinched face throws his bloody hands up in the air and lets his knife drop to the floor. "Look, this was family business," he says.

"We keep hearing that today," Sam spits, and fires his last bullet.

But the shifter dodges out of the way, rolls across the floor and snatches up a shotgun.

He shoots it at Sam, who manages to move just in time. He gets to Dan and fumbles over his restraints.

The shotgun touches the side of Sam's head and the shifter says, "I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that. You're messing with things you shouldn't. Mattie turned his back on his family and went to live with humans and now he's gotta pay for what he's done."

"Shut your eyes," Cas bellows and Sam squeezes his eyes shut without waiting to see if Matt or Dan had done the same.

Light burns against Sam's closed eyelids, a single brilliant flash and then it's gone, leaving red spots in Sam's vision. He blinks his eyes open as the blonde shifter drops to the floor, its eyes burnt out and blood pouring down his cheeks.

He looks up at Cas, who's swaying on the spot and staring into the distance. Concern hits him, and Sam asks the angel if he's okay.

It takes him several seconds to even respond to what Sam has asked and then the only reply he gives is a nod.

He turns back towards Dan and starts untying the restraints and removes the gag from his mouth.

As soon as he's free, he scrambles away from Sam looking absolutely horrified. "The hell is going on?" he shouts.

Sam raises his hands up in surrender and says, "We're the good guys I swear."

He points at Cas and shouts, "Where did all that light come from?"

Cas doesn't respond. He's still swaying on the spot, eyes fixed pointedly on the wall and looks about ready to drop to the floor.

Sam doesn't answer the kid. He knows he should probably check that Cas is okay, instead he goes to Matt and starts untying him. He eases him down gently, and there's relief in the kid's eyes as he slumps against Sam.

Sam leads him over to the chair Dan had been tied to and gets him to sit. "Will you be able to heal?" Sam asks him. He'd ask Cas, but he's still not looking very good.

Matt looks over at Dan then back to Sam, and nods.

The room is quiet for a long time, the only noise the steady drip dripping of blood falling from the head wound of the first shifter Sam shot. "So," Dan says, finally breaking the silence. "When did my brother die, Matt?"

Matt looks up at him sharply and says, "Dan, please-"

"No, I get it," he says. "I think." His hands are held up to halt any further words. "You're some kind of shape shifter, right?" Matt nods. "So James died and you decided to take his place?"

"It sounds way worse when you're the one saying it."

They lull into silence again and Sam thinks maybe it's time they got this show on the road. There's bodies to burn and this cabin will have to go as well, and Dean to get back to, if he's bothered to stick around. But Matt decides to start talking again and Sam doesn't quite have the heart to tell the two of them to stop just yet.

"I'll leave, if you want," the shifter says. "I'll leave and I'll never come back."

Dan frowns at him. "What makes you think I want you to do that? And how the shit would I explain that to mom and dad? Yeah you went on vacation and Jay just disappeared."

"Dan-"

"I mean," Dan coughs, "if you wanna leave then that's okay I guess, I won't stop you. But if you wanna stay..."

"How can you accept this so easily?" Matt asks, and waves a hand at his half-shifted face. "God, you're so much like James."

Dan tries to suppress a snigger and whispers, "Dude, so are you."

Matt's mouth quirks and he says, "I wanna stay. Mom and dad... your mom and dad, have been the best parents to me. Even when I still looked like me, even when I was just your brother's friend-"

"Oh, shut up dude. Don't start crying on me now." They're both on verge of tears and they're both laughing through them. "They are your parents," Dan says affirmatively. "And I don't care where you came from, or what your true face looks like, when it comes down to it, you're still my brother. You're still my best friend."

Matt quirks a smile and scrubs away the tears in his eyes. "God you've gotta get me home before I start sobbing like a baby."

"Done and done," Dan says. He hauls Matt up to his feet and says, "So do I call you Matt or Jay?"

"Whatever you want," Matt says.

"How about brother?"

Matt pins him with a stare. "You do realise how cheesy that sounded, right?"

Dan grins widely. "Better believe it." He starts towards the door and then says, "Show me the shifting thing? Does it hurt when you tear off your skin like that?"

Matt shakes his head. "Not really."

"Could you shift into Johnny Depp?" Dan asked. "We could take pictures and I could tell people I was friends with Jack Sparrow."

"You're so full of shit," Matt tells him shoving him in the side of the head. "I'm not shifting just so you can use it to pick up chicks."

Sam watches them walk out the door with a smile on his face. "You okay, Cas?" he asks, turning to the angel. He's stopped swaying at last.

"I could do with some rest," he tells him.

Sam nods and says, "We'll clean up hear then head back to the bunker. I'll drive." Cas smiles gratefully. "Don't worry."

***

Dean's not around when they get back to the Impala and find no dead shifter bodies anywhere in sight. At least, Sam thinks, Dean was polite enough to clean up after himself.  
Cas climbs into the passenger seat and nestles down even before Sam's hand is on the door handle.

Sam drives them through the early hours of the morning. For all intents and purposes, Cas might as well be dead to the world as he doesn't even flinch when the rising sun pours through the windscreen and bathes his face in golden light. He just sleeps even after Sam brings the Impala to a stop outside the bunker.

Sam feels drained and exhausted to the core, and absolutely does not have it in him to deal with Dean right now. Except the universe is cruel and his now-demon brother is crueller. And he's also sitting on the front steps playing with his phone.

For perhaps half a minute, Sam can convince himself he didn't watch Dean die. He can convince himself it's just any old day. He can convince himself that their already fucked up lives - apocalypses in the plural, angelic best friends and demonic ex-girlfriends - weren't any worse than usual.

There _hadn't_ been much threat of the world ending in a good couple of years and Ruby had happened a long ass time ago -

Dean's eyes flood black and it shocks Sam out of his thoughts. It's almost like Dean can't control himself when he sees Sam - maybe he can't? - and it's just weird. It's a sight Sam never thought he'd have to see, let alone deal with the ramifications of. Anyone else? Well, he's sure he would've found coming to terms with it an easier ride. But Dean?  
Sam slams the Impala door shut behind him and hears Cas startle awake.

"Hey hey hey!" Dean calls. "What have I told you about treating Baby with respect?"

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks, rage bubbling under his skin. It's the part of him that itches for the blood coursing through his brother's veins. It's the part of him that knows if Dean hadn't stopped him in that God-forsaken church then this wouldn't even be happening right now. It's the part of him that knows every step of this was Dean's own fucking fault, but that Sam took every damn step side-by-side with him.

"So, we're doing this now?" Dean asks. "Out here?"

Another notch up on the scale of anger, answering his questions with more questions. "Yes," Sam spits. "We are."

"Maybe I just wanted to see how my little brother was holding up, mourning my death, huh? Maybe I wanted to talk to Cas? Hell, maybe I just wanted to lay back down in my own damn bed, Sammy, and drink my own damn whiskey, and drive my own damn car."

"Bullshit."

Somewhere along the way, Cas had got out of the car, and he hovers awkwardly, part way between the two of them. He's clearly sizing the pair of them up in case they start throwing more than just words at one another.

"What the hell did you do to Kevin?" Sam asks. "Or are you gonna try and act like you _didn't_ raise him from the dead and let Crowley run off with him?" Dean opens his mouth, but Sam finds he's not ready to hear his excuses yet. "And whilst we're on the topic of Crowley, where the hell do you get off _working_ for him. We should've stabbed him in the heart _months_ ago and now you two are best friends? Is he feeding your addiction or what?"

"My _addiction_?"

"Yeah, you practically foam at the mouth unless you've got the Blade in your hands-"

"Haven't got it now," Dean says, holding his hands up. "And as you can see, I'm keeping much calmer than you."

Sam takes a deep, relaxing breath and says, "It takes an addict to know one." Dean's eyes flood black at the words and it doesn't budge.

Sam can hear Cas' feet pacing restlessly against the loose gravel. Dean doesn't speak.

"Why are you here?" Cas asks quietly. "You didn't stick around after the hunt."

Dean's eyes dip. "I want to come home," Dean tells the floor.

"Why?" Sam counters, still bristling, still angry to his bones.

"Because it's my _home_ ," Dean says, and his voice sounds so strained. "I meant it, Sammy, I swear I meant it. I don't wanna be this. I don't know what to do. I just wanna come home. I wanna make things right. I just wanna be me again." He groans in frustration. "I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how I can ever be me again. Half the time I don't care about anything and the other half I just hurt. I hurt everywhere."

"What about Crowley?" Sam asks in spite of himself.

The black fades out of Dean's eyes and Sam's surprised to see unshed tears in its place. "Gave me a choice. Him and the Blade, or you." Dean shakes his head, and when he speaks again it's like the words are physically paining him. Hell, Sam thinks, maybe they are. "Help me, please."

Sam can't tell if he trusts him. Maybe there's a part of him that wants to. After all, this is Dean and, for better or worse, he does trust his brother. But the demon he's become?

He walks past Dean, casting a quick glance to Cas to give him the opportunity to stop him. Then he's down the steps to the bunker and unlocking the door.

Dean watches his every move, frowns over at Cas and then back to Sam. Sam pushes open the door, then catches Dean's eye. This time there's no black, just regular old green.

Sam cocks his head at the open door. An invitation. A peace offering.

Dean breaks into a smile and all but runs down the stairs, through the open door, into the dark bunker and says, "Thanks Sammy."


	5. This Mirror Isn’t Big Enough For The Two Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There'd been an upswing in demonic activity in the area. A few livestock deaths and a failed exorcism on a young girl by a priest that was now being questioned by police. Dean had sworn blind he had nothing to do with it, nor that he had any damn idea what might be happening in Bloomington, Indiana, thank you very much for the moral support there Sammy, so Cas had suggested simply doing what they do best and checking it out.  
> That was how Sam came to be here, at 1:30am, his gun held aloft as he quietly made his way past gently steaming vents, rusting pipe work and moulding cardboard boxes. There'd been a strict no-devil's-trap policy voted in by Dean - you want me to do my damn job? Then don't get me caught in your stupid artwork - with the compromise being a clip full of devil's trap bullets in each of their guns. Dean had begrudgingly accepted and had disappeared in the blink of an eye after Sam had told him not to accidentally shoot himself in the foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update?   
> First off, let me start by apologising profusely for there being so long since the last update. My hours increased at work and then GISHWHES happened and real life just took over.   
> Secondly, as you're about to find out, this chapter is mammoth. It just kept going on and on and on. So again, I apologise if it gets a bit rambly in places. I did my best and I'm fairly pleased with how this turned out.  
> Thirdly, thank you to everyone who's stuck around and kept commenting. It means a lot to me. And I promise there will be another chapter soon, though maybe not quite in a weeks time as originally planned!

The abandoned warehouse stinks of piss and stale blood. The glass windows have been haphazardly splashed with a bit of black paint, and have long since cracked, only to be held together by duct tape, or else smashed out entirely. Moonlight filters through where it can, elongating the shadows that stretch awkwardly around corners and bleed over the high ceilings.

There'd been an upswing in demonic activity in the area. A few livestock deaths and a failed exorcism on a young girl by a priest that was now being questioned by police. Dean had sworn blind he had nothing to do with it, nor that he had any damn idea what might be happening in Bloomington, Indiana, thank you very much for the moral support there Sammy, so Cas had suggested simply doing what they do best and checking it out.

That was how Sam came to be here, at 1:30am, his gun held aloft as he quietly made his way past gently steaming vents, rusting pipe work and moulding cardboard boxes. There'd been a strict no-devil's-trap policy voted in by Dean - you want me to do my damn job? Then don't get me caught in your stupid artwork - with the compromise being a clip full of devil's trap bullets in each of their guns. Dean had begrudgingly accepted and had disappeared in the blink of an eye after Sam had told him not to accidentally shoot himself in the foot.

Sam and Cas had passed a silent agreement between them, and gone their separate ways once through the door.

Sam rounds a corner with great care, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. For the life of him, Sam can't shake the feeling that his every move is being watched, categorised, and the knowledge filed away for later use. He pauses, glances over his shoulder, finds nothing and carries on.

Then his leg starts vibrating.

He huffs a sigh and pulls his cell from his pocket, jams it between ear and shoulder and spits, "What the hell Dean, do you want me to get caught?" down the receiver.

Only for Dean to hiss back, "What the hell did I tell you about painting devil's traps?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam whispers back with agitation. "Where are you?"

"Nice try, big guy, I can tell your artistic flare anywhere. And like you don't know where I am."

"I don't."

"Oh God, you drew more of these? Jesus, Sammy." Dean sighs heavily down the phone. "North west corridor somewhere. It's a very funny joke, I'm laughing my damned ass off, now get the hell over here and get me out."

"Dean, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sam, I've spent close to a decade watching you draw these things on the ground, I know when it was you that drew-"

"Dean, I swear to God, I didn't-"

Over the phone Sam hears a female voice say, "Put the phone down and slide it along the floor."

"Oh for the love of - nice gun you got there sweetheart," Dean says, his voice sounding a little more distant than it had before.

There's an audible click and the girl says again, "Call me sweetheart one more time and I'll shoot out your kneecaps."

In that second, Sam knows that regardless of how angry he is at the whole demon situation, there's no way in hell he's gonna let some random girl shoot his brother. Even if it can't kill him.

Especially even if it can't kill him.

Sam's sprinting down the corridors and starts shouting after Dean.

He finally catches sight of him, fifteen feet away, standing in the middle of a wide corridor. He looks bored to tears.

Sam advances slowly, keeping his gun raised and keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings. Again there's that sense of being watched, but once again, Sam can't locate its source for the life of him.

He finally reaches Dean and finds there's no one else around. "Who was the girl?" Sam asks, about to stow his weapon.

"What, are you crazy?" Dean hisses. "Put your God damned gun back up."

Sam rolls his eyes, but keeps his gun grasped firmly in his hand. "Who was she?"

"A pain in the ass," Dean scoffs. "Now get me out of this stupid thing."

Sam cocks his head and tells Dean to move back. He aims the gun at the edge of the trap, only to have a gun held against his head. Dean facepalms and hisses, "How slow are you?"

"Get up," says a female voice. Different to the one he'd heard over the phone. "Slowly," she adds furiously. "Leave the gun and the knife on the floor."

Sam does as he's told and straightens up with care.

Across the other side of the trap, hovering near Dean's elbow is a pretty woman, with dirty blonde hair, bright green eyes and kitted out in cut off jeans and a red plaid shirt. There's an anti-possession tattoo inked into her chest and a Colt in her hand, with ivory grips that looks frighteningly familiar.

Sam narrows his eye at her, wondering how she managed to wrangle that off of Dean.

He pulls his shirt aside to show off the anti-possession tattoo, just the same as hers.

"Means nothing," is her reply. She cocks her head and whoever has a gun held to Sam whacks him in the back of the head with the butt.

Stars blind his vision and he goes staggering into the trap. He tries to blink the pain from him, only to catch sight of Dean struggling against the edge of the trap, pounding his fists against the invisible barrier. "Christ," Sam says, touching his hand to his hair at the base of his skull and pulling it back to find blood.

He looks up at the person who hit him, to see an athletic woman, similar age to the blonde, just longer, darker hair, also in plaid, also with an anti-possession tat, also wielding... Sam's Taurus. He double checks the edge of the trap to see the gun he'd left there earlier; an exact copy of the one held by the girl right now. Something clicks into place in Sam's throbbing head and he asks incredulously, "Are you LARP-ers? Because we really don't have time for this crap right now."

"LARP-ers?" the taller girl answers. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Quick as a flash she shoots out Dean's leg without even looking.

He doesn't even flinch, just looks down at the bullet wound and then back at the girl. "Ow," he says sarcastically.

"Hey!" He's pulled up short when the gun's turned on himself.

"Now you're gonna start talking. I wanna know why a backwater hunter like you's working alongside the demon we're hunting, and I wanna know where you get off screwing with our work."

Dean whacks a hand into Sam's chest and says, "Who'da thought it Sammy. I'm the thing they're hunting these days." And that's it. Dean's laughing his ass off.

"Sammy?" the blonde asks, eyeing Sam with great distaste. Beside her the taller girl does the same.

"Uh, Sam," Sam says in clarification. "Sam Winchester."

The tall girl snorts in an undignified manner. "And he accuses us of LARP-ing Chuck's books?"

The blonde frowns and looks between Sam and Dean. "You mean to tell me, you're names are Sam and..." she pauses very slightly, "Dean Winchester?"

Dean straightens up and chuckles a little to himself before saying, "Dude I never get tired of people knowing who we are."

"That is impossible," says the blonde.

"How are you a demon?" asks the tall one.

"Guess Chuck didn't get that far with the books, did he?" Dean says through a shit-eating grin. "Okay sweetheart, you can let me outta the graffiti now."

She squeezes the trigger but her sister pushes the gun out of the way and the bullet lands half a foot to the left of Dean.

"Hey, I gave him forewarning. I said I'd shoot him in the kneecaps if he called me 'sweetheart' again."

The tall girl frowns at her sister and says, "Dee, I get the impression you'd - uh - only be hurting yourself."

"Oh hell no. No no absolutely not. No," says the blonde.

And Sam knows why she's yelling, knows why she is so vehemently in denial. Sam's kinda with her on that one.

It's then that Cas takes the opportune moment to walk down the corridor in conversation with a dark haired woman wearing an almost identical tan trench coat.

Sam touches the back of his head again. If anyone has an excuse to be hallucinating, it's him. But no. Sam knows that this is absolutely happening.

"Oh God, Cas, no," the blonde says, looking at the dark haired woman.

The dark haired lady turns them, giving the blonde a forced smile. Then her eyes are on Dean and Sam, and it's so surreal to see such brilliant blue eyes staring at him when they're not coming from Cas. "Sam and Dean?" She's asking Cas for clarification, and he nods.

"Samantha and Deanna?" he asks the dark haired lady, and she nods too.

"It appears Metatron has sent us into an alternate universe," she says, and as one, Dean and Deanna shout, "Oh hell no!"

***

**_Three months ago and an alternate universe away..._ **

Blood rushes in Deanna's ears and her breathing comes in laboured gasps. Her knuckles are bloody and her hands hurt like hell. She's slumped against the wall like it's her only lifeline. Beside her lays Gadreel, unmoving, unconscious, her face beaten and unhealing too.

The Mark burns on her arm, is pumping violence through her veins and she can't shake it, this rampant urge to tear, and slash, and hurt. She can hear Sam's hurried footsteps approaching, can hear her voice echoing off the walls, "Dee? Dee?"

Deanna turns her head towards the voice. It's like she's seeing the world through a filter, all the edges are softened and blurred. Sam crouches down in front of her and places a gentle hand on her knee. "Deanna. Hey. Are you okay?"

Deanna pushes Sam's hand away and hisses, "You have got to stop asking me that." She makes an aborted attempt to get up and instead just tips her head back against the wall.

"I've been calling you for the past four hours," Sam chastises. "Why the hell didn't you-" Her gaze has clearly fallen on Gadreel and she asks, "Really?"

"She wasn't talking," Deanna mumbles, rubbing her bloody hands against her face.

"I guess not."

"She wanted to die. And I wanted to kill her. For what she did to you, to Kevin. But I stopped 'cause I know we need her to talk."

Sam nods along and then steals herself. "Deanna, listen. Metatron... she has Cassie. She's offering up a trade."

Something painful ripples through Deanna at the words. Last time Metatron had Cas, she'd had her Grace torn out and she was thrown down to earth. Not a chance Deanna was gonna let anything like that happen again. "We can't trust Metatron," Deanna says firmly.

"I'm aware of that," Sam says bristling. "That much is obvious. But, let's face it Dee, this is a unique opportunity. It's the first time we know for sure where she's gonna be. Let's just take Gadreel, make the exchange for Cassie, and use this to our advantage."

Sam had got Gadreel to the car and pointedly refused to let Deanna drive in the state she was currently in, much to Deanna's distaste.

In retaliation, whilst she sat brooding - not sulking thanks, Samantha - Deanna notched Baby's speakers up to the proverbial eleven and sang along, out of tune to Highway to Hell. Sammie kept throwing her disgusted looks, but gave up after a while when Dee would shoot a, "Sweetie, please don't crash my car," every time she'd do it.

Sam pulls the car to a too-abrupt stop in Deanna's eyes and gets out of the car slamming the door behind her. Dee hadn't dropped the annoying older sister act for the whole damn drive and she guessed Sammie was feeling pretty resentful at that.

Dee watches Sam pour out the holy oil into a ring and then return the rest of the bottle to the trunk beside Gadreel.

"He's late," she says afterwards, leaning against the side of the Impala.

Deanna climbs out her side and runs her fingers through her hair. Some of Gadreel's blood had congealed in it and not only was that gross, but Dee knew that it'd be a bitch to get it and the huge knot it'd leave behind, out of her hair later. "Or she's just not gonna show up."

Metatron takes that moment to appear and Dee reckons she was probably just waiting invisibly for the pair of them to show, just so she could be a drama queen. "Yee of little faith," she says. Dee scans over her vessel and her lip curls at the middle-aged housewife get up and her scraggly, greying hair. "Of course I was gonna show up, I just wanted to wait for the two of you to finish setting up your little trap." She puts on a simpering voice and touches a heavily jewelled hand to her ample bosom. "Oh how will I ever escape such a ingeniously planned trap?"

Deanna rolls her eyes and throws a lighter to the ground and the holy fire catches in an instant. "Get over yourself, asshat."

Metatron starts laughing and warms her hands against the holy fire. "Did either of you bring s'mores? Holy Fire always gives them a delightful minty after-taste. Make a wish, ladies." She blows the flames away like they're nothing and then she says, "Now we're done with the pointless theatrics-" Sam snorts, and Dee beams at her, "-let's return to business." She snaps her fingers and Cassie appears with a gag in her mouth and her hands tied, flanked by two dudes in grey suits. "I believe we spoke of a trade?" Metatron asks Sam.

Sam pushes off the Impala and heads to the trunk and pops her open. Metatron walks forwards and helps ease Gadreel out. "There, there," she says in a soothing tone that makes Deanna's skin crawl. She walks Gadreel back over to where there are scorch marks on the ground and waves a hand at the two angels holding back Cas. She's let free in an instant and she makes her way back over towards Deanna and Sam.

"You know, this little charade was fun and all," Metatron says, "but the three of you are becoming a pain in my ass. And quite frankly I don't like it."

Deanna steps forwards. The Mark burns and her tolerance snaps. "Bite me sunshine, 'cause I plan on being a pain in your ass until the day I die and then I'll carry on after that too."

Metatron looks largely unimpressed and glances at her red painted nails. "Thought you'd say something like that," she says and then flicks her wrist at the three of them.  
They go crashing back over the top of the Impala. There's a flash of blue light and they land, hard, in darkness.

The moon hangs full overhead, and gleams off Baby's paintwork. Deanna hoists herself upright and touches the car. The engine's still hot.

Sammie's on the floor, rubbing her head and Cas is currently pushing herself onto all fours.

"What happened?" Sam asks. "She knock us out until she could get away?"

Deanna looks around. They're no longer outside the motel, or even anywhere nearby from what Dee can tell. The only building in sight is a large abandoned warehouse with broken windows and shitty lighting. She touches the car again and feels uneasy. "I have no idea where we are," she says.

Cas looks around curiously, her hair catching in the light breeze. It flies about her head wildly and Deanna smiles fondly at the sight of her. "Indiana," she says, as she sniffs the air. "Though there's something very strange about this place. I believe I smell sulphur."

"So, Metatron threw us to a pack of demons?" Sam asks, looking just as baffled as Deanna feels. "And she sent us with the car?"

"Like I said, there is something very strange about this place. I just can't quite figure out what." She's made her way towards Deanna, almost like she's gravitated towards her, and Dee can't help but reach out and tuck those errant strands of hair back behind her ears.

It's only after she's reached out and her shirt sleeve's rucked up and exposed the Mark of Cain that Cassie even reacts at all. She snatches out, clamps a hand around Deanna's wrist and drags her arm into view. She inspects the Mark with great curiosity and then she throws Deanna's arm away, furiously asking, "What have you done?"

"It's a means to an end," Deanna retorts. "I've had enough lectures from Sammie, I don't need to hear them from you as well."

Cas opens her mouth to retort, but something else seems to catch her attention. Her head snaps towards the warehouse. "There's something in there," she says. "Another angel." Her eyes bug and then she's storming towards the building like her life depends on it.

"Cas," Deanna shouts. "Cassie wait up!" When she doesn't slow, Dee tries for, "Castiel!" and gets nothing. "Damn it."

"We should go after her," Sam says.

"No shit," Dee snaps, and pops open the trunk of the Impala. She rummages through the weapons, scowling. Their stocks look like they've been tampered with. She's just happy her Colt was on her when Metatron sent them flying. "Grab the spray cans," she orders to Sam. "If there are demons inside then we need to trap 'em. You got the knife?" Sam nods and balances three spray cans in her arms. "Well then, let's go."

***

**_Present Day..._ **

Dean and Deanna argue over who gets to drive and in the end, Sammie yanks both their pairs of keys from them and thrusts one set into Sam's hands. "You drive, for the love of God, or I'm gonna stab the both of them."

Sam looks around the six of them and says, "I hate to ruin the party but there's not gonna be enough room for all of us."

Dean tries to grab the keys off of Sam whilst saying, "That's why you should let me drive, and you can hot wire a car and drive the girls back to the Twilight Zone."  
Sam narrows his eyes at his brother and keeps the keys out of his reach. "Or, you could do what your demonic ass does best and just teleport back to the motel and we'll meet you there in five."

"Fine, whatever. But don't let her screw with my car," he narrows his eyes at Deanna before disappearing into thin air.

"Is he for real?" Deanna asks incredulously, looking at the spot where Dean had vanished. "I mean, Sammie, please tell me I'm not like that."

"Oh no," Sammie says, her tone thick with sarcasm. "You're nothing like that."

Deanna doesn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm and nods in agreement, as though validated.

Sammie climbs into the passenger side and Deanna throws her a disgusted look before dropping into the back. The two Castiel's climb in beside her and Sam swallows down a few deep breaths before getting behind the wheel. This was bound to be the weirdest drive of his life and he's glad it won't take much more than ten minutes to get back to the motel.

He drives in silence, though Deanna drums her fingers against the door in keeping with the music on the radio, and Sammie keeps huffing at it every two minutes.

They're about halfway back when the female Cas asks, "How was Dean turned?"

Sam notices Cas - his Cas - startle ever so slightly in his rear-view mirror, and turn his attention out the side window. Looks like this was up to Sam.

"No idea," he says. "Probably something to do with the Mark and the First Blade. Well, that and Crowley."

Female Cas nods and glances at her male counterpart. "Surely you knew? Why didn't you put a stop to this sooner?"

Cas looks aghast. "Dean does whatever he pleases. I would've thought you'd be aware of that."

At that, Deanna pipes up with a, "Hey! I'm sitting right here!"

"Don't we know it," Sammie mutters under her breath.

Deanna reaches forwards and yanks a fistful of her sisters hair. "Don't be such a little bitch."

"I wouldn't have to be if you weren't being such a jerk."

"Okay, everybody shut up, or so help me God, I'm gonna leave you all on the side of the road." Everyone lulls into silence and Sam feels only marginally relieved. "Cas is right. Dean does whatever he wants. No one knew what the Mark of Cain could do, except apparently Crowley and now he's in the wind. We thought we were hunting down demons that knew where he was but they were long gone by the time we got there." He taps his fingers against the wheel distractedly and then adds, "So, Deanna, if you're really the same as my brother in all but body, then why the hell aren't you a demon?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I mean, you have the Mark, right?"

She tugs at her shirt sleeve and mutters, "Yeah."

"So what? You kill Abaddon yet?"

"No. Can't find the stupid dick anywhere." Then she adds, "Besides, Crowley has the First Blade hidden somewhere until she locates him."

The switching of pronouns makes Sam's head hurt. "Crowley's a woman in your universe? And Abaddon's a guy?"

"Yeah," Sammie says beside him. "Which makes me wonder what your Crowley and Abaddon are like."

"Sort, angry British dude that sold his soul for a bigger dick, and a violent red-head that Dean slaughtered pretty brutally."

He catches sight of Deanna's triumphant grin and hears her whisper, "Finally sounds like something I'd do," as Sam pulls the car into the motel lot.

They climb out and he leads the four of them over to their motel room. Dean's lounging on one of the beds, watching a Doctor Sexy MD rerun, which he hastily switches off as they all filter into the room. "Took you long enough," Dean says.

Deanna heads straight for the kitchenette and unscrews the bottle of whiskey, downing a measure then holding it out to Sammie in silence. Her sister takes it gratefully and swigs the bottle too.

"Are you quite done drinking my Jack?" Dean asks.

"I'll throw this at your head in a second," Deanna retorts snatching the whiskey from her sister's hands. Dean beams at her, twitches his fingers and the bottle goes sailing across the room into his waiting hand.

"Oh will you?"

Sam flops face first onto the second bed and groans. This was going to be a long ass night.

***

Castiel makes his way over to Dean's bed and pokes him to move over. Dean raises his eyebrows at him but shuffles along without causing a fuss, and for that, Castiel is grateful. He settles down on the bed beside Dean and locks gaze with his female counterpart. "What purpose does it serve Metatron to send you here?"

"Beats me," Deanna says, dropping into one of the wooden chairs at the table and kicking her heavy boots onto another.

Castiel watches her with something akin to wonder. Now he knows the signs to look for, he can see the Mark curling darkness around her soul. It's beautiful, as beautiful as Dean's was before he was poisoned, and Castiel knows he shouldn't be surprised by this. If there was anything that could prove they were one and the same, it was this.

But it also hurts to see her. See the reminder that this is what Dean once was, brilliant and shining and above all else, good to the very heart of him. The Mark of Cain has a hold on Deanna, that he can see for certain, but it's not knotted into her yet. Not broken through all her cracks just yet. There's still time for her.

Dean's shoulder nudges Cas and he says, "What? Think she's hotter than me or something?"

"Course he does," Deanna says spitefully. "Have you seen me? Have you seen yourself with all the demon and the festering stab wound?"

Castiel frowns and can sense Dean's anger coiling tight like a spring, so he says, "Now I know what to look for, I can see the Mark corrupting you. If you're not careful, Deanna, you'll become a demon too." Then he shrugs and suppresses a subtle quirk of his lips. "Besides, demons run very hot. Much hotter than human souls, so technically, Dean is the hotter of the two of you."

"That was beautiful Cas, you shouldn't have," Dean says, beaming.

Castiel's female counterpart decides they've clearly not been taking the task at hand seriously enough, so steers the conversation back on track. She squints at Deanna and asks, "What should I be looking for? I'm afraid my Grace is very limited."

"Start at the Mark-" Castiel starts but Deanna cuts across him.

"Yeah, no." She squirms in her chair. "Don't look at me like I'm some kind of freak."

"Says the girl turning into a demon, whilst," pipes up Sammie, "you're sat in a backwater motel room with your already-demonic male counterpart in an alternate universe that's apparently also in our future. Yeah, you're right Deanna. Nothing freaky about that at all."

"Everyone seems so preoccupied with that," Castiel says, and his other nods in agreement.

"You would think they hadn't travelled to alternate universes before."

Sam takes that moment to push up off the bed and say, "Oh God, are we really bringing up the acid trip that was the Supernatural TV show?"

"Hey, that was where you were married to fake Ruby!" Dean says, looking jubilant.

"You too huh?" Sammie asks, dropping down on the end of Sam's bed and throwing him a sympathetic look. "Though, uh, he was called Rudy, but I'm assuming we're still talking about the same demon that manipulated me, you... us? Into opening the Cage?"

"One and the same," Sam says.

"Those were fun times," Dean says. Everyone turns to look at him, Castiel included. "The alternate universe?" No one says anything. "What? Don't look at me like that, it was mildly entertaining."

"Dean, an angel slaughtered the entire cast and crew," Sam reminds him.

Dean shrugs. "You're all looking at me like I just said the apocalypse was fun." He pauses. "Though those were simpler times."

Castiel squints at Dean but chooses not to comment. He can tell his other is doing the same. Instead she asks, "Is Metatron still wreaking havoc in your universe?"

"No. He's been locked in Heaven's prison, unable to escape. I made sure of it once he'd boasted about murdering, Dean."

Dean claps him on the shoulder and says, "Aw, Cas, I never knew you cared so much. It's touching. Really."

Castiel can detect the sarcasm as though being beaten by it but still he replies with, "Learning of your death and knowing I hadn't the Grace any longer to reverse it, was the single greatest loss I have ever felt in my eons of existence."

Dean looks stunned and his jaw slackens. Castiel doesn't pay him much more attention than a cursory glance, and ignores the equally as stunned faces of Deanna, Sam and Sammie, and instead addresses the other Cas. "We may be able to talk with our brother and see if he can reverse the spell from our side."

"It's a possibility," she replies. "We're able to return to Heaven here?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "Gadreel showed me the doorway and our siblings have since seized back control and have begun work to restore Heaven to the glory it once was."

"Gadreel?" Sammie asks, her eyes growing wide in concern. "You worked with Gadreel?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "He turned against Metatron and helped us take him out."

"So what's the plan?" Dean asks. "Cause if it involves saying hello to Metatron then I'm game. Especially if it means stabbing him in the face with something sharp."

"You won't be allowed to come," Castiel says. "With Heaven still the way it is, I sincerely doubt you'd be able to pass the gateway even if you were still human. The chances of getting a demon past the doors is another thing entirely."

"It's more than likely you'll be smote on the spot," the female Castiel adds.

"Well aren't you two a bundle of laughs," Dean says, slumping back against the headboard.

"So, if you and Cassie head on up to Heaven and interrogate your Metatron," Deanna says, "what should the four of us do?"

"Us?" Dean queries.

"What, you think I'm just gonna let a demon drive off with my car? No thank you."

"Your car-"

"Yes, my car-"

"Not in this universe, sweetheart."

"Oh that is it," Deanna shouts, jumping to her feet and storming across the room towards Dean. The female Castiel makes a move, to attempt to grab her around the middle, but Dean flicks his wrist and Deanna goes flying back across the room. She crashes into the table and yelps in pain.

"Dean!" Castiel shouts, grabbing his wrist. "Do not resort to demonic activity!"

His female counterpart is helping Deanna back to her feet and cupping her face gently to heal up the cuts and scrapes Dean had just caused.

Sammie turns to Sam and says solemnly, "Twenty says she's shot him again in an hour."

Sam reaches out and shakes her hand. "You reckon she'll hold back that long?"

***

Dean offers to hot wire a car for Cas and Cassie so they can make the long-ass journey back towards the Heaven Gate and whilst he's gone, Deanna decides to order them all take out and start quizzing Sam on the similarities between their universes.

From what she gauges, most things are the same except their genders and the fact Dean's gone further down the road than she had yet. She rubs at the Mark of Cain on her arm absently whilst Sam hunts for another bottle of whiskey in amongst their bags.

Her knuckles are bruised and she aches in awkward places where she flew into the table and wonders if taking this on was worth it. When she'd been beating Gadreel earlier it had all but consumed her. There'd just been a haze of anger and a complete loss of control.

Dean walks back through the door and drops onto the bed, and Deanna watches him. He's her alright, just with black eyes and a dick. But she can tell and that's probably why he's pissing her off so much. How could he have let himself become this? This is the thing they hate. It's what killed mom and took away dad. It's what tortured them on the rack in hell. It's what Cas saved them from. She looks over at Sammie, where she's having a cheerful conversation with her giant male version, and adds Azazel, Rudy and Lilith to the mental tally of demons that had fucked over her family.

So, how could he have become this? How could he have gone down this road willingly?

It just doesn't make sense. She'd never let this happen.

She rubs at the Mark again, looking down at the scarred symbol that stands out ugly and red-raw on her skin. Her own voice echoes in her head, "Spare me the warning label." That's what she'd said when Cain had grabbed her arm and branded the Mark onto her.

"It only gets worse," Dean says, making her jump from her thoughts. He's standing right in front of her and looking down at the Mark on her arm.

"Excuse me?"

Dean sits down across the table from her and points at the Mark. "That." He rucks his shirt sleeve up and shows off his matching scar. It looks worse on him seeing as it's glowing faintly and there's a network of red veins feeding into it. She guesses that's what happens when you flip over.

"Believe me," she says, "I have no intention of becoming you."

Dean glances over his shoulder at Sam and Sammie, then looks back to Deanna. There's sadness in his eyes as he leans forwards and whispers, "Neither did I."

"You seem to be adjusting well," she replies scathingly.

Dean drops back against the chair and scrubs a hand over his jaw. "It's cause I have no other choice. I made my bed, I gotta sleep in it. But you?" He puffs out a breath like it's an aborted attempt to laugh. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to pick up the Blade again and let it eat you alive."

"But Abaddon's still alive where we're from."

"Screw Abaddon. You can find some other way to take her out. Better yet, get Cain to clean up his own damn mess." He scrubs a hand over his jaw. "You run that knife through her and this is the only ending to the path you've taken. Kill something that powerful and the Blade doesn't let go. Whilst you've got your hands on it, it'll make you good for nothing more than slaughtering, and not have it? And you're acting like some junkie clawing your own face off to get your next fix, complete with sweating and shaking and puking your own guts out. Just let it go. Get rid of it, and get rid of the Mark."

Deanna touches at the brand on her arm. Dean groans in frustration. "But you're me, so you won't. You'll gank Abaddon and then you'll go after Metatron too." Deanna looks up at him sharply. "'Cause that's what I did. And then Metatron stabbed me straight through the heart. And you know what? I thought, well finally. That's it. Dead and gone and about time too. It wasn't gonna be quick but at least it was better than Hell hounds and at least Sam was there with me. Besides, always knew I'd go out bloody, and at least I was going down before the Blade turned me into nothing but a killing machine. Thought Cas was probably dead, and if he wasn't then I knew he wouldn't have enough Grace left in him to bring me back but it was fine. I could let go and be done with the whole damn thing. I was benched, parked on the sidelines, finally out of the game. Knew I was heading back to Hell, but at least this time I knew what to expect. And at least this time there was no Alastair.

"I knew I was leaving Sammy alone but let's face it, he's better off without me around to drag him down. And then," he waves a hand at himself, "I woke up. Like the start of the worst nightmare you've ever had except you can't jolt out of it. There's no falling asleep to escape it, no Death coming to reap you. Ain't nothing that can kill me. Ain't nothing that'll fix me."

"Dean," she starts to say but he shakes his head.

"This is my life now. Well, my after-life. But it doesn't have to be yours." He stands up and clears his throat. "Hey, Sam," both of them turn towards him, "uh, the guy-Sam?"

His brother nods and says, "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna scout that warehouse again, check and see if there are any other demons around."

"You want me to come with?" Sam offers but Dean shakes his head.

"Nah, you guys enjoy your take out. Guys just pulling up, can hear him. I won't be long." He looks back down at Deanna and adds, "Think about it." Then he snaps his fingers and disappears.

Deanna looks at the spot where Dean had just disappeared and feels a sense of unease creep through her.

She can't shake the feeling that he's bullshitting her. Not about trying to dissuade her from following in his footsteps, but there's something she can't quite place. There's a feeling in her gut telling her not to trust him, but maybe, she thinks, it's just cause of the black eyes and the mild stink of sulphur.

***

They eat their way through too much Chinese food and then Deanna passes out face first in a pile of pillows. Sam listens to her snores and finds they're pretty close to the noises Dean often made in his sleep and finds it oddly comforting.

Sammie, as she's told him to call her to avoid too much confusion, is weirdly enough, very good company, and Sam finds it both conceited and weird that he enjoys hanging out with himself. But, he figures, if anyone was gonna understand what he'd been through, it was him... well, her.

"So, one thing I don't get," she says, taking a swig of beer from the bottle held loosely in her long fingers, "is why the hell you would okay teaming up with Gadreel."

Sam shrugs. "He came good," he offers lamely, picking at the label on his own bottle.

"But he smote Kevin, right?" Sammie shakes her head. "Sorry, Kevin's probably a girl in this universe."

"Actually no," Sam says. "Kevin Tran is our prophet too."

"So what gives?" Sammie asks. "You still have the nightmares too, right?"

Sam bites his lip. That's got to be the first time she's admitted that, if his own experiences are anything to go by. How does he even begin to explain the fucked up stuff that's happened in the past month? He figures that if one good thing has come out of Dean being a demon, then Kevin being resurrected has to be it. Then again, he's at Crowley's mercy, so that's hardly what he'd call good.

"Wait," Sammie says, squinting at him. "You said is."

"And?"

"Present tense. Is our prophet. Did Kevin not die here?"

"Oh no, he died," Sam says, taking a mouthful of beer and feeling pretty shit about himself. "But, uh." He looks over at Deanna. She's flipped onto her back, her arms are splayed across the bed and mouth hangs wide open. She snores louder than ever. "Dean, he erm. Well I don't know for sure. All I've got to go on is Mrs Tran's word because Dean's not talking but-"

Sam's phone starts ringing. Deanna grunts awake, wiping spit from the corner of her mouth with one hand, and scrubbing at her eyes with the other.

"What'd I miss?" she mumbles.

"But what?" Sammie needles, ignoring her sister but Sam just shakes his head and fishes his phone from his pocket.

Dean.

"What do you want?" he asks down the phone, feeling pretty bored and frustrated.

"So, I might've got stuck in another one of those traps," Dean says though a half-assed laugh. "Those girls really got these things everywhere."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me." Sam sticks his hand over the receiver and says to Sammie, "Did you really have to draw that many devil's traps in the warehouse?"

"There was only three," Sammie says, pursing her lips. "He's got himself caught in another one?"

Deanna rolls off the bed ungracefully - definitely the same person as Dean - and says through a wide yawn, "Most incompetent demon ever."

Sam scowls at the pair of them and says, "I'll be with you in five," down the receiver. He slips his cell back into his pocket, locates the car keys and checks the clip of his gun for ammo. He's out of the door and opening the driver's door when he looks up to see Sammie and Deanna walking towards the Impala too.

"What?" Sammie asks. "No way are we letting you go there alone."

Fifteen minutes later, they find Dean laying down in the middle of a trap beside an ugly mess of a demon that had been torn to literal pieces. He's humming something out of tune that Sam can't quite place but he heads straight to the edge of the paint work and starts scratching away at it with Ruby's knife.

"Thanks," Dean says, pushing himself up from the puddle of blood.

Sam feels like he should comment, ask Dean to maybe elaborate, but doesn't even know where to start.

"That was the demon problem?" Deanna asks, toeing at a chunk of dead demon.

Dean makes a noise of assent and adds, "There's another couple further up, but those didn't put up as much of a fight." He swipes his nose with the heel of his hand and continues, "Thought I was being clever throwing his ass in the trap, then remembered I can't get out of them."

There's half a beat whilst Dean swipes at the blood on his jeans and then there's a, "Hello boys," from behind them. Dean's eyes flood black at the voice and his back sets rigidly.

Deanna and Sammie turn to the King of Hell instantly, guns raised and matching scowls in place.

Feeling unimpressed, Sam takes a half step in front of Dean and gives Crowley the once over.

But Crowley's attentions is on neither Dean nor Sam, but Deanna and Sammie. "Well well well," he says smoothly. "Isn't this Christmas."

***

Castiel finds driving to be rather therapeutic these days. The weight of the steering wheel under his hands, the bounce to the car as it rolls across tarmac potholes and the purr of the engine as he travels for hundreds of miles at a time. It's monotonous, and incredibly slow compared to flying, but it's simple and it fills him with a sense of peace.

The other Castiel sits in the seat beside him, gazing out of the window as the flat landscape slips by in a blur of green and slate grey. They remain in companionable silence for the first few hours of the drive, until she decides to ask, "How can you bare it?"

As they're the same angel, Castiel is fairly confident he knows what she's asking about, but he decides to stall for time and ask for clarification all the same.

She throws him a whithering look and sighs, "Dean."

Castiel was right. He feathers the gas a little, pushes the engine a bit more insistently and frowns at the horizon. "I don't have any other choice," he says.

She makes a noise like she can hardly believe that's true and says, "You should stop lying to yourself."

Castiel looks over to himself. The oddity is not lost on him. Their vessels may look quite different but beneath the surface, the Grace is almost identical. The exact same fissures that have widened across the surface of him mar her as well. He settles against the silence and thinks sadly that together they might make one whole angel, but alone they're a fractured and ugly mess. "Metatron orchestrated everything to kill Dean," he says finally. His nostrils flare at the memory and something violent pounds in his ears. He can still see the angel blade dripping with blood as though it were still being waved in front of his face. "If I didn't know Crowley better, I would've almost have said they had planned it together."

"You're avoiding my question," she says bluntly.

"I bare it because I have to," Cas snaps. "Because there's no other choice left to me."

"There's nothing but choice, Castiel. We made sure of that, didn't we?"

Cas clutches at the steering wheel. "If I knew back then what I know now, I would have done many things differently."

She sits in contemplative silence for a short while, and then says, "Such as?"

Cas sighs, settling back against the car seat. "Not letting him take the Mark in the first place. I wouldn't have let him walk away believing he was poison, that he ruined every relationship he has with anyone."

The other Castiel makes a huffy noise and mutters, "Deanna's like that as well. Gives and gives and gives, never expecting a thing in return because she doesn't think she deserves it."

In spite of himself, Cas' mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. "What did you expect?" he asks. "They're the same person. Same soul. Well, almost." He slides his hands down to the base of the steering wheel in a gesture he's seen both Sam and Dean do once they've been driving for a while. He finds the stance more relaxed, takes a quick glance in his side mirror and then says, "You've been blessed with a unique opportunity. Don't waste it."

"She doesn't listen to me any more," the other Castiel says sadly.

"I know," Cas replies, frowning at the horizon. "But it's not just you that's seen the outcome. If Dean had known he would become a demon... I don't know if the effects of the Mark of Cain are reversible. I don't know if stopping Deanna from killing Abaddon will be enough to stop her becoming a demon. But you've been given more time and more understanding of the cost than we had. You might stand a chance to save her."

They lapse into silence and Cas can feel the sadness rolling off the other Castiel in waves. It's more than just a feeling. Their Graces were the same in every way, and it was because of that that Castiel could pick up on her mood, on her thoughts and her memories.

There are flashes of Hell around them. The screams, the smell, the searing heat. His dead-weighted wings itch at the thought of it, and he knows hers do too.

"She clang to me so tightly," the other Castiel says quietly. And he doesn't have to see the memory in his mind to know what she's talking about. Doesn't have to see the Pit, see the souls torn to pieces by Dean's deft hands. He never forgets it. Never forgets the decades of war raged in Hell to find him.

"She was desperate, half blackened. Poked and prodded and torn to pieces, but never ruined. Never fully taken over. And she fought against the fear and the brilliance of my Grace. She was terrified. Torn between running as far away from me as possible and running towards something she knew was good. I raised her from that placed. Laid a hand on her and burnt away the blackness that dared come near the Righteous Woman; the most beautiful soul I have ever laid my thousands of eyes upon. And now I'm here and you're telling me that I won't even be able to stop the Mark from turning her. That no matter what I do, she will always be corrupted. That she was lost to me the second Cain burnt that brand upon her arm."

Cas has no reply, he just stares at the slate grey sky and presses a little harder on the gas.

Then she repeats her earlier question, "How can you bare it?"

"I don't," Cas replies. The crushing sadness feels like it's going to suffocate him. "I kills me a little more each day. He's everything he has ever hated, and I can't do a single thing to save him from it."

***

A short British dude stands a few feet away from them, and it takes Deanna all of two seconds to gather that this is Crowley. This guy comes across worse than her universe's version of the ruler of Hell. He's reeks of asshole and smarm, rather than the light sulphur and charm of her Crowley.

The Mark of Cain warms under her skin at the sight of him and she can tell, even without looking at him, that Dean feels it too.

And then Sam surprises them all by taking a step forwards and slamming a fist straight into the demon's jaw. "You lying sack of shit," Sam spits vehemently.

Crowley goes reeling, touching his fingertips to the split in his lip. "Good to see you too, Sam," he says. He waves his hand and Sam goes flying across the room, his great long legs waving about like some kind of giraffe on it's back. Deanna would laugh her ass off if Dean hadn't caught Sam in a look and settled him to the ground gently.

"I see you've been practising," Crowley says. "Might wanna work on your execution a tad, big boy, or you'll get sloppy." Then his eyes fall on Deanna and Sammie and he says, "Enchanté, ladies."

Sammie wrinkles her nose and Deanna puffs up a loose strand of hair.

"What're you doing here, Crowley?" Dean asks stiffly. His eyes are black and no matter how many times he blinks, he can't seem to shake 'em.

Crowley smirks at Dean's obvious discomfort and waves an airy hand around. "Oh you know," he says. "Little of this, little of that. I was wondering what had become of the mooks I'd sent to kill you." He eyes the bloody mess of flesh and bone to their left. Then his eyes trail over to Deanna and run her up and down. "If I'd've known you were bringing such beautiful company, Dean, I would've sent a few more."

Deanna's blood runs cold. Cause without a doubt this was Crowley, without a doubt it was the same demon who she was coming to rely so much on back home. And seeing him standing there, male meatsuit, and expensive dark suit, practised manipulative elegance to his words and arrogance thickly coating his tone, it just felt like Deanna was having her eyes taped open.

Dean was a mess, quietly falling apart at the sight of the ruler of Hell. And for all of Deanna's prods and jibes, and her flat out indignation that her male, future-self was a demon at all, she knew he was her. And she knew what he'd be thinking and trying not to feel when confronted with this.

Deanna had let her Crowley get under her skin, just like this Crowley had clearly done to Dean, and these were the consequences; demons on Dean's tail every which way he turned out for the price on his head and the King of Hell dropping in on you when you least expect it.

Sam, having apparently calmed himself from punching Crowley in the face shakes back his mane of hair and asks, "Where the hell is Kevin?"

His voice startles Deanna out of her head, and she looks up at him sharply. Sammie's doing the same. "Kevin?" her sister queries.

Deanna's own brain seems kicked into overdrive. Kevin? Kevin Tran the Prophet, Kevin? What the hell was happening in this universe?

A flicker of the eyes to Dean and then Crowley's saying silkily, "Haven't the foggiest, Samantha."

At that, Sammie rolls her eyes pretty hard and asks, "Can't you come up with a better insult than that?"

Crowley narrows his eyes at her, and Deanna fights the urge to stand in front of her sister in an attempt to hide her from view. "And do the lovely ladies have names?" he asks taking a step forwards.

"Bite me, Crowley," Deanna hisses in spite of herself.

Crowley's eyes widen. "You'll have to forgive me, sweetheart, can't quite put a face to the name. Have our past dealings been business or pleasure?" He gives a lewd raise of the eyebrows and Deanna's skin crawls. This is the same demon she's been listening to?

A warm hand wraps around Deanna's wrist. She half expects it to be Sammie, pulling her back from doing something she no doubt considers stupid. Instead, it's Dean. His hand is calloused and heavy against her soft skin and he tugs her back ever so slightly.

It's the first time she's seen him outright touch anyone else since she crash landed outside this warehouse. At least skin on skin. And Deanna wonders if he's worried about touching Sam and setting off the whole demon blood fiasco, or touching Cas and getting smote on the spot.

He gives the minutest shake of the head - no - and then he's saying, "I killed your mooks Crowley. If you wanna kill me, you're gonna have to do a better job than that."

Crowley tears his eyes from Deanna and looks back to Dean. "Still can't get you to take up position as my right hand?" he asks. Then he unbuttons his suit jacket and exposes the inside. "Can't even tempt you with this?"

The Mark of Cain gives a particularly violent throb on her arm and a lurch of yearning floods through Deanna. She snatches up her forearm at the exact same time Dean does too.

They look at one another and Deanna gets a clue.

The First Blade.

Deanna surges forwards, consumed with need but Dean still has a tight grip on her wrist and she jerks backwards. The motion drags her rolled-up shirt sleeve up over the Mark, and Crowley's eyes land on it without skipping a beat. It stands out on her skin, more ugly and red than it has since Cain first branded it onto her arm.

"Well isn't that interesting," Crowley says, his eyes roving over Deanna. He takes in her form, her face and her anti-possession tattoo, studying her with darkened hunger deep in his eyes. There's something predatory in that gaze, something that smoulders with want. "How on earth did you find yourself here?" His voice is sleek, pitched an octave lower than normal, and it sets Deanna's skin crawling free once more.

"Bite me," she spits once again, and strains against Dean's tight grip.

Crowley flashes his pearly whites and says, "Maybe later if you're lucky, sugar." Then his eyes slide on over to Sammie. He takes her in with a little more caution and Deanna casts a sideways glance at her sister and sees that she's shaking with suppressed rage, from head to toe. "Let me guess," Crowley says, pointing to Sammie. "Samantha Winchester and..." his eyes lock on Deanna again, "What would the female version of 'angry and heterosexual, macho man Winchester' be?" No one rises to the bait and Crowley shrugs in a nonchalant manner. "Tough crowd."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows and says, "What, d'you expect us to act all impressed, Your Highness?"

Crowley pins him with an unreadable look and Deanna feels Dean flinch beside her. "So, definitely giving up the penthouse suit I offered?" Crowley asks him. "Definitely sticking with Moose and, uh, Moosette?" He eyes Sammie lewdly.

"I'll take my chances."

"Very well." Crowley closes his jacket again, hiding the Blade from view, but now Deanna knows it's so close, she can't just turn off the burning need for it. "Good luck finding your little poking stick again." He takes a step backwards and adds, "Oh, and Dean? Best watch your step. Juliet's not very happy with you." He throws the four of them a shark-like smile and disappears.

Dean launches his phone across the empty warehouse shouting, "Son of a bitch!"

Deanna watches it smash on the floor, pieces of plastic, glass and metal skittering across the concrete. Her sentiments exactly.

***

Cas puts the car into park and sits still, listening to the tick of the engine as it starts to cool down. Beside him, the other Castiel pops the door open and clambers out. She stretches her arms above her head and Cas can hear the cracks as her spine pops. He watches her carefully and thinks that those noises are hardly angelic, but then again, neither is the pain in his own back.

He climbs out and nods over to the swing set where a dark haired teenager was sitting with her arm coiled around the chain. She was wearing a pretty navy blue dress and has her hair pushed back by a hair band, all dressed up in her Sunday Best.

Cas frowns at her young age, wishing that his siblings wouldn't manipulate humans so young. Beside him, the other Castiel says, "There was a time when taking young children as a vessel didn't bother me."

Cas nods and says, "Claire Novak."

"Yes."

"I saw her again. About a month ago," Castiel tells her. "It was an interesting experience." He remembers the anger in her eyes, the hurt that rolled off her in waves that he had left her alone, left her behind.

They made their way across the grassy park. The angel looks up at the pair of them once they're there and her eyes bug wide.

"Ambriel," Cas says in greeting.

"Castiel?" she asks, looking between the pair of them. "I don't understand. How... how are there two of you?"

The other Castiel clears her throat and says, "Metatron sent me and the Winchesters from my universe to this."

"Metatron?" she asks, eyeing the pair of the sceptically. Then she sighs and says, "You best come up then."

They step forwards in synchronicity and a swirl of blue-white smoke engulfs them.

Heaven looks different now compared to the closed-off hallways and office space Metatron had set up. It was closer to how it had been under Michael's iron-fisted rule, and Cas can't help but smile at the familiarity.

His eyes rove the large white room, hungrily taking in every inch of the home he has missed desperately. High above them is a supernova, its gas burning white hot and popping a dazzling light display for the whole Host to see.

To the left, when he tilts his head to the right angle, he catches sight of an archway that has been carved into the substance of the wall. It leads onto a corridor lined with white wooden doors and Castiel knows it will stretch on infinitely, each door leading to a personalised heaven.

The other Castiel has tears brimming in her eyes and she reaches out, twisting her fingers through his own. She clings to him tightly, training her eyes up above and she whispers, "Home."

They walk across the room, hand in hand, and after about a minute they catch sight of the garden. Lush green landscape, trees heavily laden with fruit, and pretty white stone pathways snaking deep in amongst the neatly trimmed hedges away from a large swath of steps.

Cas and his other stood at the top, of the steps, before making their way down them. About halfway down, another angel appeared, climbing up towards them. Hannah.

There's a furrow marring her brow, and her blue eyes flicker between the two Castiel's with concern. "Is this Metatron's doing?" she asks once they're near enough and together, they nod.

"Did Ambriel get a message to you already?" asks Cas.

Hannah shakes her head and looks even more concerned.

The female Castiel steps forwards and says, "We were transported from another universe. The Metatron there was to blame. My counterpart here informs me you have our brother in custody."

Hannah shakes her head sadly. "He escaped."

A knot twists uncomfortably in Cas' gut. He should've killed him when he had the chance. "How?" he asks.

"I'm still not sure," Hannah says. She waves a hand towards the garden and the three of them start walking down the last few steps into the heart of the Host. "We hoped, as Ambriel has not seen him pass that he was still within the confines of Heaven."

"And is he?" the female Castiel asks.

"We're still searching, but I have a feeling that he's not."

"Then there was no point to our visit."

"I am truly sorry, Castiel," Hannah says. She looks between the two of them and adds, "Being in such close proximity to one another is accelerating the deterioration of both of your Graces."

Cas nods and says, "I wondered." He sighs at the same time his female counterpart does. "Which is why it's imperative we get Castiel and her Winchester's back to their own universe."

Hannah's ears seem to prick at that and she asks, her eyes almost impossibly wide, "Are both lots of Winchesters within close proximity to each other as well?"

Cas' brow furrows and replies, "Of course."

Looking stricken, Hannah says, "You must get them apart at once."

"But why?" the female Castiel asks.

"Have you lost your mind?" Hannah asks, and if her eyes were bugging before, it was nothing to what they're doing now. "If they touch they'll begin tearing holes within the fabric of reality. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory-" her gaze implores Cas at this, and he flinches away from the intensity, "all of them, will start to seep through the cracks. The closer they are - the longer that lasts - the worse the damage will be." The female Castiel takes a half-step back away from the other two angels as Hannah adds, "Both of your universes are built on the foundations of magic. If those varying types converge, it would be a disaster."

"So we forget Metatron," Cas says, feeling an odd pounding building behind his eyes - the most human sensation he's felt in a long time. "We focus on getting them back to their universe." Cas glances at his counterpart and says, "I don't think the spell Balthazar used before will work."

Castiel shakes her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders smoothly. "It was designed to send them to a universe without magic. Specifically."

Hannah taps at her chin and says, "Perhaps using something corporeal from your universe might do it. Something you can sacrifice to the spell."

"That might work," the female Cas says. "We certainly brought enough with us to at least try it."

"If not, the only other suggestion I have is Kevin Tran's translations of the angel tablet, though time is of the essence."

Cas nods and says, "And none of us still have wings."

"Thank you, regardless," Castiel says to Hannah. Her hand twitches, as though she's about to offer it to the other angel but then thinks better of it. "It's been good to see you sister," she says instead, giving a little bow. "I look forwards to our encounter in my own universe."

Hannah's mouth twitches into a small smile. "And you, sister. Good luck."

"Thank you," the female Castiel says. "We should move quickly." She turns to go and Cas does the same.

"Castiel," Hannah says and they both stop and turn around in unison. "The one from my universe," she clarifies.

"Go on ahead," Cas whispers to his counterpart and she starts making her way up the stairs slowly.

Hannah eyes him with grate concern. "There are rumours," she says, and glances over her shoulder as though someone might be listening in.

"Of?"

"Dean Winchester," she says. Cas feels the knot in his gut tighten a little further. "Where he's concerned, I know we've not seen eye to eye in the past, Castiel, but if these rumours are true..."

"The conversation is over, Hannah," Cas says, turning to head back up the stairs. "You said it yourself. Time is of the essence."

"He's a Knight of Hell, Castiel!" she shouts in wild accusation. Up ahead the other Castiel pauses momentarily, before continuing on as if she'd heard nothing. "He's an abomination and you should be doing whatever is necessary to eradicate him, not mourn him."

"He is still the Righteous Man," Cas says, and even to himself he knows his voice is hollow.

"You both made sure that meant nothing a very long time ago." She clasps her hands in front of her and sighs heavily. "The fact he's Michael's true vessel is redundant. His soul has been corrupted into Hell incarnate."

Something ugly rears inside Cas and he steps up very close to Hannah and hisses, "Don't presume to know him. Don't ever." Indignant rage flares through him. "He is misguided and if I hadn't been saddled with playing war in Heaven, I would've been able to save him from this."

"So it is true," she whispers, her eyes wide and fearful.

Cas steps back.

"You must stop him, Castiel. His links with the self-made King of Hell run too deep. We see him. We see him slicing throats and making blood calls. Cashing in deals and running wild with Hell hounds. If you don't stop him, Castiel, we will."

"Then you will have to kill me first," Cas says with finality, turning on his heels and storming straight up the stairs towards his other.

***

Deanna jogs back across the parking lot, a set of keys in her hand. She knocks softly of Dean and Sam's room and the demon opens the door.

The only source of light comes from a lamp on the set of drawers between the two large beds, and each one houses a Sam Winchester. The room is filled with gentle snoring from both her sister and... well, she guesses he should be classed as her brother, but it's just too weird to wrap her head around. "Sleeping Beauty decided to pass out," Dean says quietly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "And Rapunzel decided to join him."

Deanna feels her lips quirk and flashes the set of keys. "Wanna bring the Jack and leave the two of them to it?"

Dean quirks a grin and snaps his fingers. The bottle of whiskey goes flying through the air and into his outstretched hand and, in spite of herself, Deanna smiles. Then he snaps his fingers and the lamp flickers off. "Shall we," he says and they head out into the yard, Dean pulling the door shut behind him.

The head three doors down and Deanna lets them inside. It's laid out exactly the same, with curtains drawn and two queen sized beds and smells musty. Dean clicks his fingers again and the lights snap on.

"You have to do that for everything?" Deanna asks and Dean shrugs.

"Might as well."

"It doesn't bother you?" she asks, dropping down on the end of one bed.

Dean frees his cell from his pocket, scans the screen then drops in back in his pocket. "What?" he asks.

"Being a demon? It doesn't bother you?"

"Can't say it does," Dean says casually, dropping down on the other bed and unscrewing the bottle of Jack. He takes a swig and holds the bottle out to Deanna who takes it without looking up at him. "Why does it bother you so much?"

She narrows her eyes and says, "Are you for real? We're the same person, remember? There's a whole host of reasons why us being a demon is pretty frigging terrible."

Dean quirks the bottle back out of Deanna's fingers and sips. "I dunno, man. It all just seems so..." He shrugs his shoulders and sips the bottle again. "I just don't care? Nothing hurts any more. Being human it's... confining. There's a remarkable amount of peace in random chaos, blood and Hell fire."

Deanna takes in a sharp breath and takes the bottle back. "Do me a favour and cut the crap," she says. Hearing him talk like things like that so calmly is even more unsettling than seeing his eyes blacken and it sends a thrill down her spine. "I saw how you reacted around Crowley."

Dean's shrug is blasé and he says, "What about it?"

"I thought you were gonna piss your pants." Dean scoffs but Deanna presses on anyway. "You forget who you're talking to. I know you better than anyone, because I am you. Maybe I could just about buy it that you're okay with being a demon 'cause it kills the pain of being human. Maybe. Before. But not after Crowley. Not after he dangled the First Blade in front of us and you swallowed down whatever urges you had to tear it from his hands and sink it into his face."

Dean studies her and his eyes flicker black for a split second. "How're you doing anyway?" he asks. "First Blade messes you up the first few times. Guessing you're not doing so hot with the withdrawals."

Deanna leans back on her elbows, keeping her eyes trained on Dean. "I'm fine," she says, though they both know it's a downright lie. Her palms are sweating, there's an itch under her skull that she can't quite shift and an unsettled feeling camping out just under her ribcage. "Or were we talking about you again?"

Dean rolls his eyes and swigs the whiskey again.

"So," Deanna says. "You gonna stop lying to me? Cards on the table, no holds bared. Hit me with the worst of it. If being a demon ain't so bad to you, why're you trying to persuade me to do whatever's necessary not to follow in your footsteps, huh?" She indicates for the bottle and Dean holds it out to her. "You gotta know, at least on some level, that you wouldn't have consciously chosen this life for yourself. So why're you settling now, huh?"

"Your right," he says softly. "Maybe unconsciously I do know this is all wrong but thing is Dee, I just don't care. I like it. I like the power. It's a high I ain't ever gonna come down from. I-" He shuffles forwards to the very edge of the bed and leans towards her. "I placed my bare hand on Kevin's soul and I remade him. I literally rose him from the dead. Do you get how incredible that was? My screw ups killed him and I was able to make it right."

Deanna's stomach turned. The pride in his eyes was so familiar, but coupled with his words it just all sounded so wrong. "Kevin?" Deanna asks hollowly. "Wow." She swigs the bottle again and avoids his earnest gaze.

"Not impressed, are you?" he asks.

"What? You expect me to swoon?" She rolls her eyes and puts on a mocking tone, "Oh gosh Dean, your so powerful you can snap your fingers and raise the dead!" Her lip curls in disgust. "Spare me, Winchester." She swigs from the bottle again, and before he can open his mouth to retaliate she pushes forwards, emboldened by the warmth of the whiskey twisting up her spine. "What'd you do to Linda? Or whichever parent of his lives in this universe, huh? You snap her neck with your big bad demon powers?"

The lights flicker. "She's not dead," Dean says flatly.

"Oh, so you've strung her up on the rack? She still begging for something as quick as death? 'Cause you forget, I was in Hell too before Cas pulled me out. I know exactly what Alastair taught you and I know exactly what habits you might be slipping back in to." She glances down at her scraped knuckles. Beating the ever loving crap out of Gadreel now seemed like a lifetime ago.

Dean's eyes are so dark, she's surprised to find his pupils haven't blown. There's just something violent coiling through the heart of him, readying to raise up and strike Deanna down. "She's not dead, she's perfectly safe. Sammy and Cas hid her."

"So where is Kevin?" Deanna asks and the lights in the room flicker again.

"Crowley."

"Huh." She guesses she should've already gathered that much. She lifts one leg up onto the bed and rests her chin on her knee, offering the bottle of whiskey across the way. "Let Sam help you," she whispers as his large hand wraps around the bottle.

Dean snorts and says, "Oh, you know Sam. He wished me dead in the first place. I don't think he's gonna stretch himself too thin trying to help me now I'm a demon."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Deanna mutters.

"Don't need to with you sitting there."

"You should be doing anything and everything you can to get yourself cured. You shouldn't be leaving it up to Sam, or even Cas. You should get the hell over yourself, sort your own damn problems and stop crying like a bitch, princess."

"If they cure me, then they kill me," Dean says, his eyes blackening over. He pulls down the neck of his shirt and exposes that festering wound across his heart and she finally gets a good look. It's not really bleeding, more just oozing slightly. The flesh shifts and pinches, and with each slight movement a bubble of blood shifts in the wound.

"So?" Deanna spits. "What? You think that matters? Not like we've not been ready to die before, Dean. We sold our god damned soul. Hell, we run towards death on a frighteningly regular basis. This isn't life, Dean. And it sure as hell ain't the afterlife either of us have ever-"

"I don't expect you to understand yet," he says, cutting across her.

"And what's that supposed to mean? You still think I'm gonna follow in your footsteps? Do things exactly as

you did?" She snorts in derision. "Not a chance."

"Liar," Dean breathes. "Think I can't smell the need coming off you for the Blade?"

Deanna pushes herself to her feet and storms forwards, shoving Dean in the chest where the wound is. "Dad would be ashamed of you," she spits, feeling viscous; anger popping violent scarlet in the corners of her eyes. "He'd put you down and not bat an eyelid."

She expects it to get a rise, expects it to cut deep. She knows if the words were said to her, in spite of her best efforts, they would burn her as though a red hot poker was being held against her skin.

Instead, he laughs.

"Dad was an obsessed drunk," Dean says. "He spent twenty years just trying to find Azazel. I don't think I need to worry too much about him spinning so hard in his grave that he just pops back up and kills me." His eyes roam her face greedily and there's a levity in his eyes that suggests he too knew she wanted a rise, that he too knew those words would've hurt her. "Look, I get it. I'm a demon and I should hate myself. But I've spent my whole life hating myself and now I'm over it. I'm done." His eyes flood black and Deanna sways on the spot at the sight. "Gonna try and hurt me about how much Sammy and Cas hate what I've become too? Save it, sweetheart. You think I don't know Sam's stomach turns every time he sees me? You think I don't know that Cas has to fight the urge to smite me every damn time I walk into a room? I'm well aware the very idea of me is unnatural to the both of them, but you know what, Deanna? It's not that I just don't care, it's that I kinda get off on it. Everyone's so het up tryin'a get their head around the mere idea of me, discussing at length the ways they could cure me, that they never stopped to think maybe I don't wanna be. Maybe I'm a-okay with remaining a demon for all of eternity. The Blade gives me more power than I could ever dream of, and you know what? I love it."

It feels like someone's dropped a match in her belly and lit up the whiskey. She burns all over. "You're not me," she says. "If you were, you wouldn't settle. You wouldn't give up. You wouldn't let the demons win. You'd fight until you were bloody and fight until you were dead. And even that wouldn't stop you." She looks up at him through her lashes and hisses, "You've become everything you've ever fear, everything you've ever hated, and you're trying to tell me you're not just okay with that, but happy? Screw that. I know you better than anyone in this world."

Dean snorts. "Sure you do, sweetheart."

"Forget Dad," she says in barely more than a whisper. "Forget Sam. Forget Cas." She looks him dead in his black eyes and says, "Mom would hate you."

That does it. The energy explodes off him in waves and his eyes grow, if possible, even blacker. The light flicker, the TV switches itself on and off again and the radio kicks on and starts sputtering nothing but white noise into the room.

She goes spinning back across the bed, topples straight over the other side and lands heavily on the floor in an awkward heap. He's crouching beside her in seconds, snatching her by the throat and hauling her up to her feet, then he's throwing her at the wall, pinning there with his demonic powers. She struggles against it, anger and frustration burning like a forest fire through the heart of her, and Deanna can't help but flush at the absurdity of it all. She's about to die in an alternate universe at the hands of... well... herself.

Dean's up close, his hands on her belly, thumbs digging into the soft skin just under her ribs and shit, this is gonna hurt like hell. Great. One rib cage ripped open, coming up -

But he leans forwards and buries his face into the crook of her neck and relaxes against her. "I don't know what to do," he whispers into her hair. "Nothing makes sense any more."

Deanna finds she can move again, and she brings her arms up around him to hold him close.

"My head's a mess," he mumbles, drawing back just far enough to look her in the eye. His pupils are no longer blown, and instead his brilliant green eyes are swimming with tears.

She slides her hand across his shoulder and reaches up to cup his cheek. He leans into the touch like he's starved of the attention and his eyes drop closed. "You start by realising you can't shoulder the weight alone," Deanna says. And she knows she should heed her own advice, because she's fucked things up with Sammie thoroughly, and Sammie has every damn right to be pissed with her. Because rather than blindly chase after the First Blade and Abaddon, she should be working on fixing the problems with her sister first but she's not. She's distracting herself and running from the problems, and shutting Sam out.

In her distraction, she doesn't notice Dean close the gap, and only realises as she startles against the brush of his lips to hers.

She pulls back, her eyes wide and says, "Dude."

Dean flinches at her voice and tries to back away, muttering, 'sorry' and, 'didn't mean to', but Deanna clamps a hand around his wrist. "I just wasn't expecting to make out with myself," she says. "And there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."

He quirks his mouth into a grin. "You call that making out?" There's a hint of a challenge in his tone that sparks something feral in Deanna.

And she knows this is all kinds of messed up and weird but the alcohol is helping her not to over think things when she says, "No, but I do this," and brings his lips back down against hers. She tangles her fingers into his short hair, and opens his mouth up with a well practised tongue and he gladly obliges.

His broad hands are on her again, warm and calloused against the small of her back, pooling heat in her belly and spilling down her legs.

Oh yeah, this was messed up, but fuck if it didn't feel good.

***

Sam wakes up in darkness feeling like the whole weight of the world is pressing down on his bladder. He hobbles out of bed and towards the bathroom as quietly as he can. He relieves himself, taking the longest piss in the history of the world, flushes, washes up and heads back into the room.

He's searching in the kitchen cupboards for a clean glass when the lamp on the bedside table clicks on.

Sammie's sitting upright, elbows on knees, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Through a yawn she asks, "Where's Dee?"

Sam pops a glass down on the work top and replies, "Probably with Dean. She did go book another room out." Sammie's yawn is the only reply he gets, so he fills up his glass and takes a sip. "Want anything?" he asks and she shakes her head.

He makes his way back to bed, not really feeling very tired any more.

"How'd you do it?" Sammie asks quietly.

"Do what?"

"Be okay with Gadreel?"

Sam squints over at the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall. "Honestly? No idea. But he sought us out and turned on Metatron when we needed help the most. You know the score. Sometimes we've gotta do whatever's necessary, even if we don't like it."

Sammie remains silent beside him for a long time. So long in fact, Sam wonders if she's fallen back asleep. Then she says, "Thing is, I still don't know who I'm more pissed at. Gadreel for using me to kill Kevin, or Deanna for letting her in in the first place."

Sam nods and takes another sip of water. "I didn't think I'd forgive him either, y'know."

"But you did?" She frowns at him and fiddles with her ponytail. "Why? Cause he died?"

Sam sighs and says, "I guess." He brushes his hands through his hair and adds, "I pushed him away and this was the result. I had to watch my brother die and turn into this. And no matter what he says, he doesn't want to be a demon. Not the Dean that died at the hands of Metatron. Doesn't mean I'm not still pissed at him. Doesn't mean I don't hate what he did to me. But we can't fix that if he stay like this. And we can't fix it if he's dead."

"And you wanna fix it? You wanna forgive him?"

"Yeah," Sam says in barely more than a whisper. "He's my big brother. I could live without him in my life, but I guess I just don't want to."

She throws him a sad smile. "Can't argue with that." She pulls the flat pillow out from behind her and fluffs it up. "So, you gonna tell me what happened to Kevin?" she asks.

"Dean," Sam says. "He raised him from the dead apparently."

"How?" Sammie asks, her jaw dropping open.

"Laid a hand on his ghost and just remade him. Crowley's orders, which should tell you exactly what you need to know about the situation."

Sammie drops back against her pillow forcefully and groans. "Well that's just perfect."

"Hey," Sam says. "You've got all this to look forwards to."

She snorts. "Not if I can -"

Sam's phone starts buzzing on the cabinet, reverberating loudly against the wood. He picks it up, squinting at the bright blue light blinding him in the half-light, swipes at the screen and says, "Cas?"

"Did Dean get our message?" the female Castiel asks.

He and Sammie exchange looks and Sam says, "What? No, Dean's not here, he let us sleep."

"Sam," she says urgently, "it is imperative you find him. And Deanna. And whatever you do, make sure you don't touch one another."

"Er-"

Cas' voice pipes up then and he says, "The slightest touch of your alternate selves could very well rip a hole in the fabric of the universe."

Sammie's hands clutch at the blankets on the bed and then she leans towards the phone and says, "Cassie, I'll get hold of Dee, don't worry." She's already leaning back over her bed, exposing her stomach as she reaches for her phone.

"And Sam?" Cas says solemnly. "Metatron has escaped Heaven. I'd advise not telling Dean yet. We'll deal with one crisis at a time."

Sammie scowls down at her phone as she types and says, "But how are we gonna get home, Cassie?"

"Don't worry," the female Cas says, "we have a plan. Just don't leave the motel, we're almost there."

"See you soon then," Sam says, killing the call. "Heard from Deanna yet?"

Sammie nods and her hair falls around her face like a curtain. "Room seven," she tells him. "Dean's with her."

Sam smooths across the creases in his forehead and starts throwing things into his duffel. It takes less than a minute, and then he's slinging the bag over his shoulder and heading towards the door. "You got everything?" he asks and Sammie nods.

They exit the room, Sam snapping the door shut behind him and following Sammie across the yard. They reach room seven and knock.

Dean opens the door, shirtless, the wound in his chest looking worse than ever, and grins broadly. Just over by the bed, Deanna is buttoning up her jeans.

"Oh my god," Sammie hisses, barging past Dean and storming towards her sister. "Please tell me you did not sleep with yourself!"

Deanna shrugs, and Dean splits his mouth into an even wider grin.

Sam groans. "Of course a tear in the fabric of reality could only be caused by you wanting to screw yourself. Of course."

"What's that?" Dean asks, his smile faltering slightly.

Sam sighs heavily and finds he can't quite bring himself to say it. Fortunately Sammie pipes up and says, "If we," she points to herself and Deanna, "touch you guys," she points between Sam and Dean, "it starts tearing tiny little holes in the universe. Here I was worrying about accidentally brushing up against Sam and causing a rupture but God, I needn't have bothered with the two of you going at it."

Dean has the decency to look at least a little guilty as a drags a black tee over his head. "Not like I knew," he mutters.

"Cas text you!" Sam shouts, holding his hands up.

"Cell died." Dean plucks the traitorous piece of technology from his pocket and waves it about, it's screen blank.

Sam scrubs a hand over his face and groans. The apocalypse might as well be about to restart all because his brother wanted to partake in a little over-involved me time. This wasn't happening. This was absolutely not happening.

"Sam," Dean says, and his voice is soft, careful even. Sam looks up at his brother to find his eyes have bugged wide, slipped black, and are focused on the spot just over Sam's left shoulder. "Uh, Sam? Don't make any sudden movements okay?"

The hairs on his neck prickle and he's very aware that his back is exposed to the open lot behind him. He struggles with the urge to cock his head over his shoulder, and turn towards whatever it is Dean can see. A quick glance to Deanna and Sammie tells him that they're both looking behind him too, but their blank looks give away a lot. Whatever it is, it's only something Dean can see, which means... "Please tell me there's not a Hell hound behind me," Sam says.

Dean licks his lips and says jovially, "No." His lips quirk and Sam can't tell if he's worried or just trying not to laugh. "There's four."

Sam desperately wants to move. His skin feels like it's crawling and he needs to scratch at an itch everywhere. "Of course there is," he says bitterly.

"Dee, Sammie," Dean says gently, not taking his gaze from the Hell hounds.. "Move to me. Slowly."

Sam watches the two girls inch forwards. They're both staring just behind Sam as if looking at the empty yard could will the hounds into view.

Dean's eyes bug wider, blacken over, and he shouts, "Aw hell," and lunges towards Sam. Dean's hand clamps tight around the front of Sam's shirt, and then Sam feels like he's just been thrust into a vacuum. The air around him feels like it's been sucked away. He can't breathe, can't move, there's just nothing everywhere and Sam panics.

Panics because this isn't exactly a new sensation, isn't exactly the first time he's felt like this. Except the last time, he was in Hell. The last time, he was smothered by two rampaging archangels and somewhere in the back of his mind, Lucifer is welcoming him back to the Cage, welcoming him back to reality...

And then he's sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, Sammie and Deanna both in a heap on the back seat, and Dean is beside him, his eyes still ugly obsidian, and he's throwing the car into reverse, skidding the wheels and then gunning into gear, screeching out of the lot leaving behind the stench of burning rubber and the sound of howling dogs.

"C'mon Baby," Dean mutters softly, petting the dashboard. "C'mon girl." He pushes his foot down a little more insistently and the engine growls. He looks at Sam sharply and spits, "What, you just forget to put gas in or something?"

Sam leans against the seat and breathes heavily, waiting for his heart rate to slow back down to normal. "Oh, I'm sorry," Sam says vehemently. "I forgot getting mauled to death by Hell hounds was on the agenda for tonight. Must've missed it up there with screwing yourself from an alternate universe."

Dean scowls into the rear view mirror and says, "Sure, okay Sam, now is totally the time to be a sarcastic little bitch." He breaks hard and Sam, Deanna and Sammie all go jolting forwards.

Dean's tearing open the Impala door and popping the trunk in a flash. "Dean!" Sam shouts. "Oh for the love of-" He opens his own door and storms to the trunk beside his brother.

His sawn-off in hand, Dean looks up at Sam and says, "Get back in the car, Sammy."

"Not happening," Sam says, grabbing his own shot gun and filling it up with salt rounds. Then he searches through the other items until he comes across a skewed pair of glasses with slightly charred lenses. He stuffs them on his face and looks up the empty road.

He can see them, not far away, chasing down the highway. He raises the shotgun and braces himself.

In his peripheral vision he catches sight of the girls joining them. Deanna throws Sammie a spare sawn-off, before getting Dean's one thrust into her hands by their brother.

And then Dean's off, storming up the highway with the bone blade he crawled out of purgatory with.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, but Dean's gone.

The first Hell hound goes straight for the jugular and Dean rams the blade straight into the creatures neck. It goes down with a yelp.

Sam starts firing the gun, shouldering the weight of the recoil. The salt round hits, and wounds, one of the Hounds leaping for Dean and it crumples to the ground whimpering in pain. It attempts to stalk forwards, but - encouraged by Sam hitting his target - Sammie and Deanna start firing off rounds that clock the same dog almost square in the face.

Sam ejects the cartridges from his gun and reloads, only to look up and see Dean flat on his back with a Hell hound snapping it's jaws at his face.

His stomach drops. Not again.

But his brother's hands are wrapped around the dogs neck, glowing a pinkish-red and before Sam knows it, the dog is exploding into black blood all over Dean. Dean rolls up onto all fours, scrambles for the blade and doesn't notice the dog advancing on him.

Sam fires off a salt round at the dog only to miss and for the salt to scatter the ground an inch to its right. A large portion clock's Dean in the side of his face and he shouts in pain.

A car goes screeching past Dean and slams into the Hell hound, before it breaks hard in a shriek of tyres. The Hell hound starts moving out from under the car, whimpering loudly, black blood staining wet across the road surface. Cas climbs from the drivers side door, drops his angel blade into his hand and stabs the hound through its shoulder blades, then tucks his blade away and offers Dean a hand to get back on his feet.

Dean brushes at the black blood and half glances at Cas, "My hero," he deadpans and wanders over to retrieve his purgatory blade, swiping the blood off against his jeans.

His eyes trail off into the distance, focusing on a street lamp several feet away. It flickers. Dean frowns.

The female Castiel moves around the car and goes to Deanna and Sammie to check that they're both okay. "We should go back to the warehouse," she says, turning back to Cas.

"I think the spell may work better if we execute it where we arrived. Would you agree?"

Cas nods distractedly, his eyes trained on Dean.

"And you have a spell?" Sam asks, frowning at the angel and then over to his brother. Dean's eyes are blackened over, and still narrowed in the direction of the street lamp. Sam looks over to it, and the light flickers again.

"I have an idea for a spell," Castiel says, and she too follows their line of sight to the street lamp.

Dean clears his throat and says, "Well whatever it is, better shake a leg." He finally tears his eyes away from the lamps that has started to flicker a bit more insistently, and he turns on his heel and heads back to the Impala. "Hell's coming."

"What did you do?" Cas asks, as Deanna and Sammie throw their weapons into the trunk and move towards the Impala's back doors.

Dean's hand grips hold of the door frame hard and he turns an angry pair of eyes on the angel. "I didn't do anything," he spits furiously.

Before he can help himself, Sam scoffs out a, "Yeah right," and Cas is turning his demanding blue eyes on the youngest Winchester.

"I screwed Dean," Deanna shouts, throwing her hands into the air. "You can judge us all you want later but I think we've got more pressing issues to worry about."

Cas massages at his temples, and shares an exasperated look with his counterpart.

"That would explain it then," the female Castiel says. "It's all the more imperative we get this spell to work then. Quick."

In an instant, they're all scrambling back into their respective cars and kicking their engines into gear in seconds; Dean's got the Impala ticking over and is slamming his foot on the gas just as Sam snaps his door shut.

***

Cas trails his car behind the Impala as closely as he dares, and follows Dean's line of travel off onto a side road, towards the abandoned warehouse. The Impala pulls up several yards from the parking lot and Cas scowls ahead at the black car.

Beside him, Castiel is looking behind them through the wing mirror, her blue eyes trained on whatever is following in their wake. Once Cas kills the gas she says, "Hopefully if we get back to our universe, yours will snap back how it was." She doesn't tear her eyes from the mirror.

Cas glances up into the rear-view mirror and notices a heavy cloud filled with lightning, roiling across the dark night's sky. "I very much hope that too."

Cas climbs out of the car and makes his way towards the Impala. The Winchesters are all already arming up with guns, knives and extra ammo. Deanna tucks a spare angel blade into the back of her pants and Sammie keeps hold of her own copy of Ruby's knife.

"We sprung up over there," Sammie says, making her way across the lot. She crouches down and touches the tarmac. "Look there's scorch marks."

"So what?" Dean asks. "We just draw your spell on the ground, say some Enochian and you guys get beamed up like Scottie?"

Cas bends and looks through the items in the trunk of the Impala, extracting a vial of lambs blood with a white sticky label over it and a collection of various herbs. He silently hands them over to his female counterpart, careful not to brush up against her, and continues his search for the bone of a later saint. He knows there's one in there somewhere. He'd made a point of stocking up a collection of items himself, just in case. He glances at Dean who's got his arms crossed and is tapping his foot impatiently and he sighs and says, "Yes, Dean. That is exactly the plan. We full intend on sending your alternate selves to the Enterprise." He finally locates the bone and wanders past Dean to hand it to the other Castiel.

A furrow creases Dean's forehead and he mutters, "Sarcastic little bastard," in a carrying whisper.

Cas chooses to ignore him, and watches his other mix up the blood and the herbs with some of the rock salt from a shell.

There's a loud crack of thunder up ahead that rents through the night air, and the wind picks up, throwing dirt up into their eyes. Then follows the rain, falling over them like a blanket, bursting from a cloud that hadn't been there seconds before. The Winchesters curse, and Cas watches as his counterpart spreads her torn wings high up over her head, to shield the rain from the spell work.

Cas blinks and shakes the rain from his eyes.

Her wings were corporeal.

Wildly, he looked up above, noticing a terrible split through the sky like a fork of lightning that had been frozen. And in it he could see Heaven; the beautiful garden he'd seen only hours before dangled above him like an apple just out of reach on the top branch. He yearned to spread his own wings and reach up for it, and as though thinking it made it real, Cas' wings flickered into existence, feeling heavy and sore, the longest feathers dragging against the dirty tarmac.

"Holy shit." That was Dean. Dean who's eyes were blown black and staring straight at the points just over Cas' shoulder. Dean who was taking desperate steps backwards in obvious fear. Dean who's face had started to flicker from human to demon, who's hands appeared to elongate before Cas' very eyes, who's forehead was marred by two great and twisting horns extending above his head.

His mouth maws open, his jaw looking as though it's breaking away from his scull and it juts a little. His teeth are pointed and grow a little longer, leaving his mouth bloody and staining his lips red.

He doubles over, bellowing in agony as his shirt tears from his back, a pair of great leathery wings forcing through muscle and flesh. They flap about with a lack of coordination that could only arise from someone being forced to grow an extra pair of limbs and being asked to instantly control them.

***

Cas moves closer, desperate to soothe Dean, for all he seems to know is that Dean Winchester is screaming, screaming, screaming in pain and he must stop it.

Dean flinches out of his touch and hisses at him, all primal instinct that Castiel is something bright and good whilst he is something... not.

Distantly, Cas is aware of his own voice screaming for the other Winchesters to shield their eyes. But the words don't spill past his lips, but from the other. He tears his eyes from Dean and looks behind him just as she erupts into a collumn of light.

He flinches, doubles over, and feels the same happen to him. Jimmy Novak's body disappears as his true form breaks free. He sees with a hundred eyes, feels the storm rage through six pairs of tattered wings at his back and hears every breath gasped by the Winchesters like a hurricane.

"Well," hisses a voice somewhere up ahead, "isn't this interesting?"

Cas doesn't need to hear the wail of anguish that issues from Dean's bloody mouth to know who voiced those words.

He turns his many eyes on the demon. It's tall, with long arms ending in clawed hands made of smoke and long, bony legs supporting its weight. It bares red wings at its back, leathery like Dean's but much less impressive. Horns, too, protrude from its skull, a great crown of them cresting around it's elongated head like a bastardised halo. Its eyes fix on Castiel - great orbs of solid red - and its stretches his mouth of sharp teeth into a shark-like grin. "Those wings have seen better days, Castiel," says Crowley. His red eyes burn between the two different Castiel's, his gaze eating the pair of them up.

In a blur of black, Dean launches forwards - his height having doubled in mere seconds - and tackles Crowley to the ground. They go skidding backwards and slam against the wall of the warehouse. "GIVE IT TO ME!" Dean's voice bellows in Crowley's face. "GIVE IT TO ME!" His clawed hands scratch at Crowley's front, catching against exposed ribs, and his jaw cracks open like a snake readying to swallow it's prey.

Crowley's blackened hands reach around and grab Dean's wings and pull. Dean howls in pain and tries to twist out of Crowley's grip. But Crowley doesn't relent. "Now now, squirrel. That's no way to greet your King." There's a flash of lightning that burns up the sky and Crowley leans up and bites Dean's throat.

Dean's blood gushes over the other demon and he gurgles from the obvious pain. So Cas does only what comes naturally to him - he wades into war against demons to protect Dean Winchester.

He wraps a hand around Crowley's smoke wrist and tugs. The joint snaps and Crowley yelps.

Dean turns to Cas from his position covering Crowley, and twists his mouth into an ugly grin. "Thanks Cas," he hisses, blood dribbling down his chin. The sight makes Cas' stomach pitch through the floor.

Dropping his gaze, Cas watches in horror as Dean plunges his hands through Crowley's rib cage and manages to withdraw the First Blade.

Cas lets go of the King of Hell as though a bolt of lightning shot through him and he takes several steps backwards. The earth quakes at his movements.

Crowley is crawling across the floor, blood pouring from his chest, spitting mouthfuls of blood to mark his progression. He shifts a glance over his shoulder to Dean and splits his face into a great grin. "Gonna kill me, kid?" Crowley asks, a malevolent glint in his red eyes.

Dean's wings flare, and for a brief second it's like he seems to consider it. He clutches at the First Blade and it looks impossibly small in his large hand. "Eventually," he says, then he spreads his wings and takes flight.

Castiel glances down at Crowley, bloody and pathetic at his feet. It would be so easy just to plunge a reach his hand out and smite the demon from the face of the earth, but his Grace flickers and he aches to the bone. Crowley rolls sideways, producing a tarnished angel blade from apparently nowhere. "Come on then, Feathers," Crowley says, pushing off the floor. "Let's dance."

Cas contemplates it, but he knows when to pick his battles.

When he reaches his wings out, they feel leaden and far too heavy. It's been so long, so desperately long since he took to the skies, felt the wind rush through his being and left the earth far below his feet. But he sweeps his wings down, pushes himself up and follows after Dean.

***

A knot of guilt tightens in Deanna's gut as she tilts her head back and looks up at the garden in the sky. It was full of lush grass and trees heavily laden with ripe fruit. The last time she'd seen it, it hadn't looked quite like that. It had looked much more crowded, hundreds of trees all growing over one another to see who could climb the highest. It had been humid, and smelt of damp earth. This garden doesn't call those memories to mind at all.

This is how Eden is meant to look, she knows. Not her bastardised, knock off version her heaven had tried to conjure up.

She turns her eyes away, and feels nothing but shame.

It's then, that she catches sight of Dean. His body is convulsing, twisting and breaking into something horrific and terrifying. At the sight of him, she wants nothing more than to run away screaming - to know this is her fault, that he is what she could become...

But her feet remain firmly where they are and she can't move at all.

There's a part of her that remembers a sight similar to this. A great hulking creature of twisted human skin, flayed into horrific wings upon a bloody back. She remembers Alastair's once human body that was tortured into something entirely else, baring down upon her, pressed up against her...

Dean wears his own blood like a weapon that he'll use to harm anyone that dares come close.

Distantly, Deanna hears her own Castiel shouting for them to shield their eyes. But Deanna's brain doesn't seem to be co-operating in the slightest. It's only when her sister's arms collide with her neck and force her head down that she seems to regain motor function.

She closes her eyes just in time for a brilliant white light to burn against her closed eyelids. A second passes and then another, and another... Another burn of white light and then the ground starts to quake.

"Move," says Sam - the male version - and Sammie starts to drag Deanna across the courtyard.

She stumbles to get upright, scraping her hands and her knees against the floor. Eyes still firmly squeezed shut, Deanna moves like a blind woman, like Castiel's Grace just burnt her eyes clean out of her head.

Dimly, she's aware of a heavy door scraping open, of the stale stench of piss hitting her nostrils, of darkness bathing the backs of her eyelids. Something scuttles in the distance and there's a clang of metal on concrete. Silence.

Sammie asks, "Is it safe to open our eyes?"

"I think so," Sam replies.

Deanna blinks and waits out the burn of her eyes adjusting back to normal. It takes time she doesn't have.

"What the hell happened?" Deanna whispers, turning back towards the door. "What the hell happened to Dean?"

"His true form was revealed." Deanna spins on her heels. Before her stands Cas - her Cas - and without thinking, Deanna makes her way forwards and wraps her friend up in a tight hug.

"Why'd you use your Grace? Did you think you could smite him or something?" she asks, before realising she had a face full of battered grey feathers.

Deanna releases her angel and takes a step backwards, her eyes bugging wide on the several pairs of wings broken from Castiel's back. "My true form was revealed briefly too," she says, with an unnecessary wave at the wings. "But I believe, whilst in here, it is suppressed." She pauses. "Mostly."

"Are you able to carry on the spell? Do you have enough ingredients still?" Sam asks.

Before the angel can reply, the scuttling sounds again, closer this time, and Castiel says, "There should be enough to complete the spell but there are demons here."

"I'll take care of them," Sam says, punching out the empty salt rounds and replacing them anew.

"Not alone you're not," Sammie bites back, but Deanna catches her sister around the wrist. "You stay with Cas. You're better at spells than I am anyway. I'll go with Sam."

She casts a glance over her shoulder at Cas and Sammie who start walking in the opposite direction. Sam clears his throat and she cranes her neck up to look at him. "Let's go," she says, clapping him on the back, making her way towards the opposite side of the warehouse where the noises had come from. It might be her imagination but she thinks she hears laughter.

"You realise that probably just ripped another hole in the universe right?" Sam asks, falling in to step beside her.

"Sky's full of the Garden of Eden and your brother just grew wings. Think the damage has already been done there, Sammy," she says, holding her shotgun aloft as she cranes around a corner.

Sam sighs, and follows her around the corner. "Can't argue with you there," he says under his breath, and for the first time in quite a while, she genuinely smiles.

***

Cas crashes to the rooftop hard and feels one of his wings break under his weight. Dean is there, watching him carefully from a distance, his great wings splitting across the night's sky, slicing the light of heaven in two.

It has stopped raining, though the ground Cas lays on is still damp, and the occasional rumble of thunder sounds through the sky.

He aches all over, and there's a shooting pain through his back and down his Grace with every jostle of his broken wing. Eyes trained on Dean, Cas gets to his feet and finds he's managed to squeeze back into Jimmy. The human hands are grazed and Cas clears his throat and spits a mouthful of blood to the floor. Probably a punctured lung.

He makes to move forwards, to take a step towards Dean and make sure he's okay. But Dean holds the First Blade aloft; a sign to keep anyone who dares look at him, at bay, and subtly shakes his head.

Dimly, Cas remembers a time when Dean's hands would've crowded him had he fallen down. Remembers a time when his voice would've ached as he asked if Cas was okay, as he chastised him that he wasn't strong enough. Remembers a time when relief would've flooded through his green eyes when he learnt that Cas was safe and whole and alive.

The ache in the core of him isn't anything to do with his broken wing or his dissipating Grace.

"Dean?" he asks, and he's not sure why it's a question he's formed at all.

In a flash, Dean moves. His wings fold tight against his body and he lunges for Cas.

Cas barely has time to think, let alone defend himself, and he wonders whether he would even if he had the chance. There was something strangely poetic, if a little tragic, at the thought of a demon killing an angel; the angel that had once granted his soul salvation from Hell.

Besides, this was Dean, in spite of what the Mark of Cain had done to him, and Cas could no more kill him now than when ordered by Naomi.

Dean's hands wrap around Cas' arms, the First Blade presses bluntly against the side of Castiel's head and then he's pushed to the side, shoved roughly behind the horned demon and he skids against the dirt once more.

It's only then Cas gets a look at what had been behind him: a scar of bleak grey trees and earthy hills strewn with dead tree branches and rotten leaves.

The creatures that trudge through first come in a flash of fangs and fur, with filthy skin and carrion stained teeth. Cas flinches as Dean dives in, cleaving the First Blade through them all so quickly they barely have time to register who they're in front of, or what is happening. Then Dean wipes the Blade against his sleeve and furrows his brow in Cas' direction. He hesitates and Cas wonders if he'll say anything, or if he's fighting the urge to bring that weapon down on Cas' head as well, but another wave comes chasing through the mouth in the universe and Dean is preoccupied again.

Cas joins in this time, running an angel blade through werewolf ribs, or smiting the vampiric soul of a creature already once departed from this plane.

He and Dean work back to back, in tandem. The grey splits wider and Cas can smell the rot of the place, like he'd never left. He wonders if Dean feels the same.

When the Leviathan come - and they do in droves - their mouths maw wide and devour any creature that stands between themselves and Cas.

So many nights pushing through the belly of Purgatory, leading them desperately away from Dean's bright, human soul they so viscously wanted to consume. Endless days waiting for the inevitable blow of his death by their hands. So often had he expected death, even wanted it, at their hands in those months after he's safely gotten Dean out of that place, that now faced with them again, Cas finds he wants to live.

Teeth and tongue flash above him until quite suddenly they're not. And there stands Dean, doused in blood and black gunk, several Leviathan heads strewn at his feet and a mountain of dead bodies.

He offers Cas a soaked hand, and helps him back to his feet and says, "Just like old times, eh?" He nudges Cas with his elbow, and toes at a Leviathan head.

They're given little respite before more come for them, and this time its every bottom feeding monster that dares go bump in the night.

Dean has clearly learnt quickly how to control his wings, and he uses them now as extra limbs in the fight. It's staggering, really, how elegant he makes being a demon look. A slash of the Blade through the air here, a well aimed strike with the end of his wing there; he's beautifully brutal.

Something - a wendigo, Cas thinks - pushes Dean to the ground, and he slams down hard enough to crack the concrete. A rugaru leaps forwards, alongside a ghoul and they bite and scratch at Dean like they're trying to tear him limb from limb.

Cas struggles against the two vampires that snatch at him, that grab fistfuls of feathers and pull them painfully. He throws his angel blade to his left hand and twists his arm awkwardly to plunge the weapon into the gut of one of the creatures. He's able to take out the other vamp with relative ease after that and he strides towards Dean, grabbing the wendigo by the throat and throwing it back through the scar of Purgatory.

As if in slow motion, Cas watches as the rugaru kicks the First Blade from Dean's hand. It goes skittering across the rooftop, teetering on the edge of a gaping hole in the ceiling. Dean screams like a wounded animal, tearing the rugaru's arm clean from its socket before lunging forwards, clamouring to grab the Blade. It topples, catching against metal and brick as it goes, and it's all Cas can do to leap on top of Dean and pin him with all his might, lest the Winchester throw himself after it.

The fall wouldn't kill him, Cas knows that. But it would put Dean's body beyond repair should he be cured, and Cas can't take those kinds of risks.

There's half of purgatory advancing on them and Dean struggles against the angel's weight in his desperate attempt to be reunited with the First Blade. Cas knows they have two choices: down, or up.

So he clamps a hand around Dean's ribs, spreads his wings as wide as they'll go and tugs, pulling Dean from this plane onto the next and hoping beyond anything, that his broken wing will get them away.

***

The stench of the Pit hits her nostrils first; a sickening swell of sulphur and rotting meat. And then in a blink, the pair of them are surrounded by demons on every side. They're a mix of human skins and twisted monsters of smoke, broken bone and leather wings, and they press in on every side, readying to tear Deanna and Sam apart.

There's far too many of them for the two of them to survive, Deanna knows that. And she also knows it'd probably be a quicker, cleaner death, to just lay down their weapons and let it happen.

But she's never been one for going down without a fight. She readies her shot gun, lining up her back against Sam's. If she's gonna die, at least she'll die beside her family.

She squeezes the trigger and the nearest demon gets a chest full of rock salt. She's already fired the gun again before she's even fully through the recoil of the first shot; another demon springs back, bleeding.

They're grossly outnumbered. Sam slashes and stabs away with Ruby's knife where he can and the demons he catches light up orange.

Deanna slips in spilled blood and crashes to the floor, her knee smacking the concrete hard and pain stabbing up through her hip.

Teeth sink in to the flesh of her calf and she hisses in pain as blood oozes down her leg. She kicks out with her free foot, and it collides with horns and bone with a sickening crunch. Whatever was biting her lets her go but the sharp pain continues.

Ahead something falls through a gap in the ceiling, clattering as it tumbles through pipes and barely erect scaffolding. Whatever it is, it sinks in to the back of the demon straight opposite Deanna and lights it up like a Christmas tree.

She lunges forwards, ignoring the agony in her right leg from both ruined muscle and shattered bone, and reaches for the leather covered handle of the weapon. Dimly, she hears Sam scream, "Deanna, no!" but it's pointless. Her hand makes contact and the effect is instantaneous. Power surges through her, sparking like electricity in her palm and flooding her system enough to make it blow.

The Mark of Cain throbs on her arm, and almost glows in the darkness.

And even though she feels about ready to explode from the power coursing through her, she turns, completely overwhelmed and moves towards the nearest demon.

A single slice across it's front and poof! It falls to the floor, dead. They fall so easily as she makes her way through the lot of them. One falls, two spring into its place, and they go down like stones in water too.

Until, that is, not a single one is left and she's standing in front of Sam. Sam who's eyes are wide and desperate and full of fear. Sam who is shouting her name repeatedly, his voice giving out every other attempt as though he's been calling for her to stop for a lifetime. Sam who's hands are raised. Sam who looks to be on the defence, as though she could possibly be about to slaughter him too...

The Blade topples out of her hand - stained in blood and God knows what else - and tinkers across the floor. Her heart pounds in her ears and she should be relieved, except she's not. That giddy high of power doesn't leave her as she lets go of the Blade, not like she thought it would, not like she thinks it should. She swallows down sulphur tinged air and wishes this jittery feeling in her spine would fade away.

"Hey," Sam says softly, his arms falling down to his sides. "Hey it's okay, you're okay now." He reaches forwards and lays a gentle hand on her upper arm and squeezes tightly.  
"You probably just ripped a hole between Heaven and Hell," she tells him thickly, her eyes trained past Sam and staring at the First Blade.

Sam shrugs, moving to block the Blade from view.

Deanna can't explain it, but the sense of loss that shudders through her, scares her to the core.

Sam bends down and picks the Blade up. "We should get back to Cas and Sam," he says. "Clearly splitting up was a terrible idea."

He moves out of the room and Deanna watches him. She knows she should follow after him - should follow the path through the demon corpses and spilled blood - because he's her brother, she supposes. And she does. She follows with cautious steps, hobbling through the carnage trying not to put too much weight on her damaged leg.

But she doesn't follow Sam, because he's Sam and he's her brother. She follows Sam because of what he holds in his hand.

Want for the First Blade consumes her, and it dulls her to all other desires.

She feels sick to the stomach, but can do nothing about it.

***

In earth time, they're gone all but a few seconds, but they travel for aeons across the plane Cas flies them through. Dean writhes in his arms for a long time, thrashing his own wings about and clawing sharp nails against Castiel's wrists. Several times he tries to twist down and bite him, but he hasn't figured out how to manage that yet with such a cumbersome jaw bone. He does, however, manage to catch Cas in the mouth with his horns.

The angel finds a spot devoid of any chaos and settles them down, exhaustion hitting him like a wall as his feet finally make contact with dirty earth.

Cas manages to catch a glimpse of the dark warehouse blinking in to view, before a fist collides with his face and he goes spinning in to the filth below.

A foot collides with his stomach and he jolts over, skidding several more feet across the floor.

Then Dean grabs hold of the front of his trench coat with both hands and head butts him straight in the nose. Cas feels his nose break - he shouldn't - and blood flows freely down his face.

He takes the beating Dean hands him; lets his cheek bone fracture, lets the skin around his eye swell, lets his lip split.

"Fight back," Dean hisses in his face, and Cas catches a whiff of sulphur on Dean's breath and gags on it.

"No," Cas tells him simply, and this rewards him with another fist to the jaw.

He won't hurt Dean. He won't. He won't.

And though Dean hits him, over and over, there's barely any weight behind the blows, until the hand he raises up drops down limply.

Cas is dimly aware of Sam's voice bellowing, "Dean, stop!" but his demands come far too late to make the blindest bit of difference.

Slowly, Cas can feel his Grace inching through his vessel, healing the damage so slowly, it's agonising.

Sam's feet are rushing across the concrete, he'll be here very soon.

"I'm so sorry," Dean breathes, so quietly, Cas is almost certain he imagined it.

Dean's hands release the front of his trench coat and Cas topples, remembering suddenly that gravity is at play. Sam catches him, helps him back to his feet, all the while throwing the dirtiest look at his brother he can possibly muster.

Sam fusses over him. Cas wishes he'd stop.

Deanna takes a step out from behind Sam's shadow and throws a punch at Dean. He takes the blow without even trying to defend himself, his shoulders downturn and his blown-black eyes on the floor. "Something is broken in you," she spits viscously.

It's only then that Cas catches sight of the blood she's covered in, of the black ink slowly curling through her veins from the Mark of Cain.

"What did you do?" Cas asks her, though the sight of the First Blade in Sam's hands tells him all he really needs to know.

No one answers him. All that Deanna says is, "We should find the others. I wanna go home."

Cas watches as Sam hands off the First Blade to his brother without a word and then stalks off through the warehouse. Cas follows after him, and says quietly, "The process has started now. For Deanna. She is heading down the same path as your brother."

Sam presses his mouth into a thin line and he whispers back, "I couldn't do a damn thing about it, Cas."

"I know," Cas tells him.

"Cool wings," Sam points out. "They always looked like that?"

Cas shakes his head sadly. "They were ruined after Hell," he says quietly, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Dean and Deanna follow in stony silence.

Sam keeps resolutely quiet after that.

The reach a small room where the walls have been painted over with sigils, and the entranceway has been blocked by a strip of iron and a line of salt.

Sam and Deanna head into the room without any incident and Cas lingers outside with Dean, neither of them acknowledging the warding designed to keep the demons out. Cas studies him, and searches for those green irises he's so used to seeing. But the solid obsidian dominates Dean's eyes and he scrubs a bloodied hand over his face, hissing, "Just go on without me."

Cas throws him one last, doleful look and steps over the iron and salt in to the room.There's a crackle of magic in the air, so potent he can actually see it sparking in the ether. His counterpart crouches down over her blood-work, her wings folded tightly across her back, and she mutters Enochian under her breath.

Sammie - currently the only person in the room not completely covered in blood - is arguing with her sister, trying to wrestle something out of her tightly-closed fist. "Like hell I'm letting you burn the keys to my baby," Deanna spits.

"Do you wanna get home or not, huh?" her sister retorts, finally peeling open Deanna's fingers and grabbing the keys.

She tosses them straight at the female Castiel, who catches them deftly and throws them straight into the bowl of blood and various other spell ingredients.

A feral noise passes Deanna's lips as Castiel strikes a match and drops it in to the bowl, igniting the ingredients into a column of bright blue light.

Castiel stands, brushing her hands against her tan trench coat and holding a hand out to Cas. He takes it, briefly, and feels fire burning under her skin. The magic in the room sparks brighter and Cas knows the walls between worlds are almost completely gone. He says, "Good luck, sister."

"And you, brother," she replies, dropping his hand.

She snatches hold of Sammie's wrist and pulls her forwards and Deanna follows without any sort of prompting, still throwing disgusted looks at both her sister and her angel.  
The column of blue white light pulses and Castiel steps towards it, keeping a hand firmly grasped on both of her Winchesters. Her trench coat billows forwards, catches the light and it expands.

Cas and Sam step backwards, and the younger Winchester shields his eyes with his forearm.

In a blink the three women are gone and the light fades to nothing.

There's a distant rumble of thunder, then silence.

Sam lowers his arm, blinking several times. "Has everything gone back to normal?" Sam asks.

Cas looks around, his back feeling suddenly ten times lighter than it had before and he nods. No more wings. "I think so."

"Then let's get Dean and go."

***

Dean's gone by the time they make it out of the room, and Sam wonders why he's surprised. He climbs into the Impala - mysteriously the tank now full and ready to go - and guns the engine, Cas slipping in to the seat beside him.

Sam wonders out loud about what the girls are up to now they're back home in their alternate universe, simply to fill the silence. Cas doesn't offer much insight, and the conversation falls flat once he says the effects of the Mark of Cain had taken such a hold on Deanna after slaughtering so many demons, that it was likely irreversible now, just like it had been with Dean.

Sam finds little comfort in that.

Cas takes a stint behind the wheel when they stop to fill up the tank. The sun is beginning to rise, bleeding orange across the indigo skyline and Sam climbs in to the passenger side without a word, bundles his jacket up at his shoulder and tries to get to sleep.

He hadn't realised how exhausted he was, or how badly he aches, until he's out cold with Cas gunning them down the highway.

It doesn't take long for sleep to claim him. The Impala rumbles beneath him, the radio plays a quiet tune and Sam's eyes drop closed, blocking the sunrise from view.


End file.
